The Dark at the End of the Tunnel
by Nevermore
Summary: The fleet must face a health crisis that threatens to destroy all that the survivors have fought for, all while opening doors to some unexpected opportunities.
1. Not Alone in the Night

Ron Moore reimagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way meant to challenge any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**Author's Notes:** I fear writing in this fandom. I consider fanfic a tricky thing – you have to write something entertaining and original, all the while following canon enough so that the characters don't become unrecognizable, and therefore unpalatable to fans reading the story. To accomplish this, I usually set my fics in the gaps in shows' narratives… but there aren't many of those gaps in BSG. So that leaves me with theorizing about future events, which will end up being wrong and AU to the extreme, so I don't like that. But I got encouragement from **Brynn McK**, so I'm giving it a try. Hope I don't disgrace myself.

As usual, I've done a bit of research for my fic. From a BSG standpoint, I found The Battlestar Galactica Wikipedia to be an invaluable resource for all things _Battlestar Galactica_.

Finally, I need to thank **Brynn McK** for her patient assistance as a beta reader. She can totally channel any of the BSG characters, and that's insanely helpful to a writer like me. I cannot stress enough how much better her assistance made this fic.

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**The Dark at the End of the Tunnel  
**by  
**Nevermore**

**I – Not Alone in the Night **

"He's lucky to be alive," Starbuck muttered under her breath, immediately eliciting an icy stare from the C.A.G. Remembering Lee was the C.A.G. was something she still struggled with, especially when he still jogged over after every dogfight to brag about every one of his kills, adorably trying to be just as good a pilot as she was.

"Am I to take it you have something to add?" the Captain asked.

"Yes, sir," Starbuck retorted with a heavy sigh, abandoning any semblance of restraint as she accepted her superior officer's challenge of a stare-down. "Kingston is lucky to be alive," she growled with only a brief sideways glance at the man who had been her wingman during her C.A.P.

"That's not how I saw it," the Captain replied curtly.

"And how could you _see_ anything from C.I.C.? Dradis console give you that clear a view?"

"Watch it, Lieutenant."

"One cylon raider, that's it… and an experienced pilot almost gets wasted. That seem strange to you?"

"I didn't almost get wasted," Kingston objected. Two virtually identical, withering stares – one from Starbuck and one from Apollo – immediately caused him to rethink his participation in the conversation.

"He did," Starbuck insisted, turning back to the C.A.G., once again ignoring the other pilot. "I'm the one who had the front row seat, _sir_. We've gotta change this up somehow. I've been saying it since Day One, and now maybe someone will start to listen."

"You're overreacting," the Captain stated evenly, in a tone that told Starbuck the debate was over. Not that she cared.

"Wake up, patrol, land, eat, sleep. Wake up, patrol, land, eat, sleep. Day in, day out. It's the same thing, all the time, and it's taking away our edge, Lee."

"Captain," he corrected.

"Captain," Starbuck said through gritted teeth. "That cylon was no better or worse than any other raider we've run into. They're all the same, all the time. They're just machines, and I haven't seen a raider yet that can match a human in creativity in the cockpit, that can somehow simulate the adrenaline rush we get when we realize our lives at stake. But they don't get tired, they don't get bored, and they don't become complacent in a stale routine. They never stop hunting us, and when it's time to fight, they all activate the same combat program and perform equally efficiently across the board. And they just keep coming…"

"I seems like you're the one who's tired," the Captain commented. "Luckily, that's something that can be fixed. You're grounded."

"What!"

"Two days, Lieutenant."

"No!"

"That's an order."

"That's bullshit!"

"Three days."

Kara was about to protest more; she knew that Lee would never give her more than three days, that he just couldn't afford to have her out of the rotation any longer than that, but Kingston had already grabbed her by the elbow and started leading her out of the debriefing room.

"You never know when to quit," Kingston muttered once they were a safe distance down the hall.

"You never know when to quit, _sir_," Starbuck corrected, eager to inflict her rank on someone. Anyone.

"Sir," Kingston added. Starbuck noted that he did not so much as roll his eyes; it was nice to know that he had been cowed by her greatness.

"Dradis contact," an announcement came over the ship's speakers.

"Launch the Alert Fighters," Colonel Tigh's voice added moments later.

"Let's go," Starbuck practically shouted, grabbing the front of Kingston's flight suit, pulling him back the way they had just come.

"You're grounded," Kingston reminded her.

"He didn't say starting when," Starbuck answered with a wickedly thrilled grin.

"Yes, sir," Kingston agreed with a smile, one step behind as they raced toward the flight deck.

-------------------------------------------------

"What do we got?" the commander asked, striding onto the deck with an air of authority that made every single person in the C.I.C. snap to attention. The casual observer would never have realized that Commander Adama had just left for his quarters twenty minutes earlier after a fifteen-hour shift.

"Not too big," Gaeta reported, "but definitely larger than a standard raider."

"One of those heavy raiders?" Tigh asked.

"Maybe… No sir, the silhouette is wrong," Gaeta clarified. "Looks like a light freighter of some sort, maybe a YT-1300. It's taken up position behind the fleet and holding there."

"Receiving a signal," Dualla said.

"On speaker," Adama ordered.

"This is the Battlestar Galactica," Dualla said, her voice ringing out clearly over the C.I.C. speakers. "Say again, unidentified ship."

"This is the Chimera," the small ship answered, "a private transport under the command of Robert Fetter. I'd like permission to join your fleet, Galactica."

Tigh glanced across at his commanding officer. "Cylon trick? Maybe get close enough to blow a nuke?"

"What are you getting on that thing?" Adama asked Gaeta.

"It's anything but a stock freighter," the Lieutenant reported. "It's definitely armed – looks like military-grade anti-aircraft cannon on the dorsal side, and something… else on the ventral side, with some ship-to-ship missiles on there, too. It's definitely got a Raptor tactical sensor array, and I'd be willing to bet a month's pay that they jury-rigged a Raptor FTL drive into their engines somehow."

"Nukes?" the colonel asked.

"Nothing active."

_Of course,_ Adama knew, _that means there could be several inactive nukes, all of them shielded against detection._

"I read five life signs," Gaeta said. "They all appear to be human."

"For what that's worth," Tigh grumbled. "Lieutenant Gaeta, get a firing solution on that ship." Adama glanced at the colonel. "Just in case," Tigh muttered under his breath.

"What's going on?" a new voice asked. Commander Adama turned to see his son walk into the C.I.C.

"Why aren't you out there?"

"Viper maintenance. Chief needed to mix and match parts again, and that left us one Viper short. I figured I could use the time to catch up on all my paperwork, but--"

"--that'll have to wait," the commander finished "Unknown armed vessel, pilot says his name is Robert Fetter."

"Rob Fetter?"

"You know him?"

"Yeah… if it's really him. We went to flight school together."

"He's a pilot?"

"Was," Lee explained. "Got busted down in rank a few times, though… rubbed lots of people the wrong way. Damn good pilot, though."

"Like we need another pilot like that," Tigh grumbled. Both Adamas ignored him.

"Eventually he lost his wings," Lee continued. "I think there was actually a court martial or something, I really don't know anything specific. Just rumors. I _do_ know they let him stay in the service, though. He went over to Special Ops, had a team of his own. That was a few years back… I haven't really heard from him – or about him – for a while."

"But he's a real person," the commander said, thinking out loud, omitting the obvious addendum – so it's likely he's not a cylon.

"Let me find out," Lee suggested. The commander nodded, and Lee was on the line moments later. "This is Captain Lee Adama, please repeat identification."

"Lee?" the freighter pilot asked. "Apollo?"

"Yeah," he answered with a smile. "What are you doing out here?"

"Delivery," Fetter answered, his deep voice rumbling over the com. "I'd like permission to dock with the Astral Queen."

"What for?" Apollo asked, casting a glance toward his father. The commander appeared just as curious about the request.

"I have a couple of prisoners to transfer to the Astral Queen," Fetter explained. "Names are Kylie Hanson and Simon Karr. Don't expect I'll be getting a bounty on them anymore, but I sure as hell want them off my ship."

"Great," the commander muttered as he reached over and muted the com line. "You didn't say anything about him being a bounty hunter."

"He must have left the service," Apollo answered. "Like I said, I knew him at the Academy and heard about him from time to time. We were tight for a while, but it's not like we were ever the best of friends."

"Find out more about his cargo before we let him dock anywhere."

"Violent criminals?" Apollo asked, opening the line to Fetter.

"One of them," he responded. "The other's just a white collar guy. But I'm tired of them eating my food and breathing my air."

"Same old Ares," Apollo said under his breath, a faint smile spreading across his face as he remembered flying with Fetter back at the Academy, his grin belying his insistence that he never knew Fetter very well.

"That's Ares?" the commander asked. He remembered a few stories he had heard about Lee back at the Academy. _Ares, Apollo, and Athena._ _Three cadets with an overabundance of ability, and the inevitable, corresponding lack of restraint. At least until the accident._ Lee had never spoken of it, but the commander had had plenty of friends at the Academy. He heard all about the fallout from Athena's crash, and he had not failed to notice his son's immediate attitude adjustment. _If not for Athena, Apollo would probably have turned out just like Starbuck,_ he had thought several times. Now he had a chance to meet the final member of the terrible trio, the one he had heard went in the opposite direction. Those who embraced psychobabble would say Ares had survivor's guilt; the commander simply thought he lacked a proper sense of responsibility. "Put him in a holding pattern beyond the edge of the fleet," the commander ordered. "Send out a Raptor to link up with them and get blood samples to bring Dr. Baltar. Keep a Viper on them at all times until the results clear."

"And then?" Lee asked.

"If all's well, then clear them to land on the Astral Queen. But not until we know for sure they're not cylons."

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"I'm surprised you remember me," Tabitha Donner commented, taking a hesitant sip of her tea, trying her best to make sure that she did not burn her tongue. "I'm even more surprised that you still remember what we talked about the one time we met."

"Believe it or not, it's not every day people stroll into my office and call me an ignorant, bureaucratic peon in thrall to a closed-minded cult of personality." President Roslin smiled warmly, unable to hide her amusement at the memory.

"I didn't exactly mean it like it sounded," Donner replied.

"Sure you did," Roslin said, her tone sounding like anything but a rebuke. "You just regret it now because you never expected me to make it to the presidency from my cozy seat in the Department of Education." To her credit, Tabitha Donner decided against any further denials. "The thing is," the president continued, "I thought about that meeting a lot after you left. I even eventually decided you might be right."

"Really?"

"About your book," Roslin clarified. "Not about President Adar's administration being a cult of personality." Again the warm smile. The thought occurred to Roslin that her guest might distrust so many smiles, given the heated exchange they had had last time. That concern reminded her of a conversation she had with Adar shortly after he was elected. He complained that he was forced into a prison of smiles, knowing that he was expected to portray a sunny disposition at all times, even when everyone knew it was a lie. It did not take long for everyone to arrive at the conclusion that his smiles were not to be trusted, that they were a sign of deceit, despite the fact that he could never dispense with his smiling demeanor, even if he wanted to.

"Great," Donner responded, nervously taking another sip of her tea, this time ignoring the burn she received, thinking it a small price to pay for the opportunity to give herself something to do.

"So what, exactly, can I do for you?"

"I'm a writer," Donner began. "But of course, you already know that."

"Yes."

"I figure everyone has to find a niche now, do something that they're good at."

"Yes," Roslin agreed. "We've been trying to figure out a way to put everyone to work, to find something to keep people busy. It doesn't do anyone any good to just sit around all day."

"An idle mind is the devil's workshop," Donner muttered.

"Huh?"

"Nothing," Donner said. "Just an old proverb I remember reading. I don't even know where I saw it."

"Hmm…"

Donner did not know what to make of that, so she plunged ahead. "I want to write a book. About you."

"About me."

"Yes, ma'am. A book about you, about the attack, about everything that's happened so far. Someday, people will want to know what happened. We should start making note of it all right now, with it all fresh in our minds, while it's all still going on."

"For the future," Roslin mused. Donner saw how the president liked the sound of that. _She's all about helping morale,_ the author knew. _Writing a book to make a record for our posterity sends the message that the president fully expects that posterity to survive. And thrive. And ask questions about what came before them._ Donner knew the president had already decided to agree to her request; now it was only a matter of answering her questions. To her surprise, there was only one more question. "So when would you like to start?"

-------------------------------------------------

"Perhaps you haven't heard, but I _am_ a bit busy," Baltar said with a heavy sigh as soon as Layne Ishay walked into his office. "New ship just arrived, have to test them all," Baltar continued with a dismissive wave.

"I have a few tests to run," the paramedic answered. "I'll stay out of your way."

"You need _my_ equipment?"

"You have the best lab in the fleet, Doctor," she explained. "I'll be quick."

"Dr. Cottle has a lab of his own," Baltar pointed out. "I fail to see why you have to come in here and--"

"--Because we have to make sure," Ishay barked. "So back off, okay!"

"Fine," Baltar sighed, turning again to his own screen. Silently, he made note of the latest instance in which Galactica's crew did not give him the space he felt he deserved.

"Gee, she certainly seems wound up," Six's unwelcome voice purred. Baltar felt the cylon's warm breath against his ear – he still wondered how she did that; visual hallucinations were one thing, but it was downright creepy for her to be able to breathe on him, too – and he did his best to ignore her. "It must be something serious."

"Mmm-hmm," Baltar grunted, hoping Ishay would think he was just thinking out loud.

"And the words she chose," Six added. "_We have to make sure_… What do you think they have to make sure of, Gaius?" Despite his best efforts, he found himself drawn into conversation with the cylon once again.

"Sure, I guess I'll just ask her all about it," Baltar grumbled, his voice barely audible over the centrifuge Ishay started. "Yes, I'll walk over and strike up a conversation, just to have a quite stunning blonde hallucination stare me down for having the unmitigated gall to speak to another woman while in her presence."

"Did you say something?" Ishay asked.

"Just thinking," Baltar responded with a grin. Six's scowl worked where her innocent-sounding suggestions had not – he turned away from his screen and looked at the visiting paramedic. "Then again," he said to Six, leering at Ishay's figure while she was concentrating on her tests, "perhaps some nice conversation would be quite pleasant."

"Be careful, Gaius," Six said with a cold sneer. Baltar focused his efforts on ignoring the cylon. At least until her fingers rubbed up against his pants zipper.

"Well, isn't that interesting," Baltar exclaimed, practically leaping out of his chair as he cast a reproachful stare in Six's direction.

"What's interesting?" Ishay asked.

"Umm… nothing, actually," Baltar said with a grimace. "So, umm… what is it that has you traveling all the way down to my humble lab?" he asked in reply.

"Stop flirting, Gaius," Six growled. Baltar ignored her in favor of having some fun.

"Just some blood tests," Ishay answered. "We're a little backed up in medical. Cottle wanted me to bring them here."

"So casual and relaxed all of a sudden," Six said with a smile. "Methinks she's hiding something."

_Probably,_ Baltar agreed silently, wondering – not for the first time – whether his cylon hallucination was capable of reading his thoughts. _But I'm not playing Six's game this time._ "Just make sure you power down the microscope before you go," Baltar warned. "I've had to repair the fracking capacitor twice already."

"Sure."

"You're not even the least bit curious?" Six asked. "Really?"

"I think I'm going to head down to the mess for some coffee," Baltar muttered. "Like I said – make sure you power that down before you go."

"Sure," Ishay said again.

Baltar practically raced out of his lab, irritated by Six once again. _I was going to ask about Ishay's tests,_ he told himself. _Really, I was. I'm not completely dim. But not if _she _tries to get me to do it,_ he decided. _I'm not giving in. Not anymore._ He chased from his mind the thought that he had made this same promise to himself countless times, and he had yet to keep it for more than two days at a time. _It's _my _head. There's only room for one of us in here… it's past time she figure that out._

_To be continued…………………………_


	2. Friends Old and New

Ron Moore reimagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way meant to challenge any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**II – Friends Old and New**

"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes," Rob Fetter commented as he opened the door and settled his gaze on Apollo. "You look tired."

"Been busy," Apollo answered. "Mind if I come in?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really." Fetter stood aside and waved Apollo into his quarters. "Where's your crew?" Apollo asked.

"They're both on the ship," Fetter explained. "Repairs, inventory, the whole nine yards. Besides, this prison cell the captain refers to as our quarters isn't big enough for more than two of us to be in here at a time. Drake spends most of his time on our ship, and Rutger only swings by this hole when he needs some sleep."

"Sounds like you're already adjusting well."

"Can we skip past the B.S., Apollo?" Fetter asked. "What're the terms?"

"Huh?"

"You've come to dragoon me and my team into Galactica's crew, right?"

"What would make you assume that?"

"You're not denying it."

"Look, we've got little more than 45,000 people left, Ares. They need to be protected, and you're an experienced soldier."

"No one's called me Ares in years," Fetter laughed. "Little known fact – Colonial commandoes rarely got to retain their call signs after they lost their wings and were transferred."

"Okay," Apollo said, unsure of how else to respond. Despite Fetter's smile and laughter, there was an undeniable edge of bitterness in his voice.

"So I ask again – what're the terms?"

"How do you mean?"

"How many hours per week?" Fetter asked. "It's not like we can haggle about pay, benefits, or educational reimbursement, right? I need to know how many hours per week, what rank my guys and I get, how much bigger the quarters will be on Galactica as opposed to here on the Astral Queen, and how many patrols per week I get in a Viper."

"In a Viper," Apollo repeated with a smile. "Is that what you're expecting?"

"Have a surplus of pilots for those antique Vipers, do you?"

"Not exactly."

"So give me a few patrols each week, and I'll place myself and the Chimera at your disposal. It's a good ship, Apollo. Think of it as an oversized Raptor with state of the art Colonial weapons."

"And your crew?"

"Gotta talk to them yourself," Fetter said. "Both of them served for a time, so they may want to help out. They both have pretty bad attitudes, though. You know, I might be willing to intercede on your behalf…" His voice trailed off and a broad smile played across his face.

"And the price?"

"A few cigars," Fetter answered. "I haven't had a cigar since about a week after the cylons attacked. I spent enough time on battlestars to know that someone somewhere on that beaten-up hunk of a would-be museum has a year's supply stashed away."

"I'll point you in the right direction when we're done."

"And how much more do we have to go?"

"I need to know about your crew," Apollo said. "And I need to know everything that you've been up to since the Academy. Most of all, I'd really like to know how the hell you found us. Consider it the commander's need to know."

"I hope you have plenty of time," Fetter replied, "because this is gonna take a while."

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"Who're you?" Helo asked, staring down the unfamiliar man who had just arrived and started staring at Sharon, asleep on the cot in her cell.

"Noah Drake," the man answered, nervously running his hand through his thick black hair, his bright blue eyes noticeably avoiding Helo's gaze. "I just landed on the Galactica. I'm with Lieutenant Fetter."

"And this is the first place you came?" Helo took a step toward the much smaller man, planning to intimidate the newcomer and chase him from the specially designed brig. He generally disliked new faces just on principle, and the fact that Drake had to have practically raced down to see the captive cylon did nothing to make Helo more friendly.

"I had to see it with my own eyes," Drake answered. "Captain Adama told us that the cylons could look human now, and--"

"--They more than look human," Helo interrupted.

"Oh, of course… you must be Lieutenant Agatha."

"Agathon," Helo corrected.

"Yes, the one who – fathered, I guess is the correct word – her child, right?"

"Right."

"Fascinating."

"You think so, huh?" Helo asked, moving another step closer. Drake moved a half step away, maintaining some distance, but he kept his own eyes riveted on Sharon as Helo tried to end the conversation. "Maybe you should just go now."

"Soon," Drake responded. "Very soon, I'm sure. I just… I had to see it."

"Her. You had to see _her_."

"You really think of it that way?" Drake asked. "How? I mean… after what they did to us."

"Okay, that's it, buddy. Show's closed," Helo said evenly. "I've been more than patient, but I think it's time you leave now."

"I'm here on the commander's orders," Drake replied. That took Helo by surprise. "He found out about my old job, so he told me to come down here and take a look."

"Your old job?"

"Military intelligence," Drake answered.

"If you think you're gonna torture her…" Helo practically shouted, his hands balling into fists at his side as he chased away no shortage of images in his head – some memories, some nightmares – showing the misery the mother of his child would endure.

"I never said I was an interrogator," Drake snapped. "I was in R&D, actually. I'm a scientist. Specifically, a theoretical engineer." His voice suddenly oozed confidence and arrogance as he began to speak about his old job. In fact, Helo found that the man in front of him now reminded him of Dr. Baltar.

_A slightly less squirrelly Dr. Baltar,_ Helo decided. "You're _a what_ engineer?" he asked.

"A theoretical engineer," Drake repeated, very slowly, as if he were speaking to a very young child that was hearing the words for the first time. "I come up with theoretical weapons and then try to make them a reality."

"And the commander sent you down here?" Helo asked skeptically.

"Well, as one of my shipmates would say, before fighting a war, one has to understand the enemy. From what I've heard, we don't even have anything approaching an efficient means of telling a humaniform cylon from a human."

"A humani-what cyclon?"

"Humaniform cylon," Drake repeated with an impatient sigh. Helo found he disliked the sudden feeling that Drake was barely tolerating him, treating him like a five-year old child trying to take part in a conversation about inter-colony politics. "They look and, from what I've heard thus far, often at least _act_ human," Drake explained. "They're human in form, if not in fact. They're certainly not like any of the centurions we fought when we were scavenging parts at an old colonial outpost."

"So you're an engineer," Helo muttered, trying to get control of the situation, to put Drake back on the defensive like he had been before Helo lost all track of the conversation. "You're interested in how things are built. If you think for a second that you're going to take her apart or anything--"

"I have been very patient with you so far, Lieutenant, but if you continue trying to intimidate me we're going to have a problem."

"Really?" Helo asked, crossing his arms and glaring at the shorter, thinner scientist. The subtlety of trading verbal jabs was a lost art on Helo, but physical intimidation was something in which he excelled. He knew that, if nothing else, he was good at violence.

"Really," Drake snapped. "All I need do is report your interference, and you'll find yourself on latrine duty for the foreseeable future." Helo laughed at the empty threat, and Drake quickly changed his approach. "Yes, well… I suppose maybe you're assuming that the commander would never ground a qualified and experienced ECO just to satisfy my injured ego. Maybe you're right. Maybe I'll have to find another way, something creative."

"That a threat?" Helo asked, taking another step toward the engineer.

"I'm a theoretical engineer, Lieutenant," Drake chided indifferently, turning away from Helo and directing all of his attention on the captive cylon. "Imagination is what I do. I don't make threats. I've never needed to. However," he said, his tone switching from vaguely impatient to cheerily amicable with a single word, "I find this pissing contest quite disagreeable. I'd rather we got along."

"I bet."

"And so do you, Lieutenant," he answered, his tone once more turning on a dime, containing a hint of malice that Helo would never have expected such an unimposing man to be able to muster. "Because you see, I have a lot of questions regarding this cylon, and I believe that you have answers for a great many of my questions. In the unfortunate event that you decide not to be forthcoming with some of that information, I may be forced to use my imagination to find other ways to answer those questions. I'm sure even a soldier has enough intelligence to follow along with what I'm saying."

"Yeah," Helo grunted. He fought the impulse to crush the man's skull against a bulkhead. _I always knew this was coming,_ he reminded himself. _No way people will ever accept Sharon and me… but if there's some way to make this easier, even if it means dealing with this asshole, I think I better play along. At least for now. At least until the baby's born._

-------------------------------------------------

"Lee?" Starbuck asked, knocking softly on the open door to the C.A.G.'s office. "You got a minute?"

"Depends," Apollo said uncertainly. "Is this about you being grounded?"

"Yes."

"Then no, I don't have a minute," Apollo said. He knew better than to discuss the topic with Starbuck when she opened the conversation by calling him 'Lee.' He wore at least three hats that he knew of – superior officer, wingman, and off-duty buddy – and Starbuck was going to have to learn not to confuse his various roles in her life. She could not use their friendship to evade discipline.

"But I don't need to be grounded," Starbuck protested. "I can understand that you're overworked, so I'm willing to put up with you being a little cranky--"

"That's big of you, Lieutenant," Apollo said, steepling his fingers in front of him and staring down his best friend and most insubordinate pilot. "Just knowing you can empathize will help me sleep better at night."

"I didn't mean it like that," Starbuck objected.

"You're grounded, Lieutenant, end of story," Apollo said. "Consider yourself lucky that I don't give you extra time for that stunt you pulled, ignoring my orders and immediately jumping into a Viper when we went to red alert."

"Reporting for duty, Captain," another voice said, startling Starbuck almost right out of her boots. She turned and found herself staring into the chest of a man she had never seen before. She looked up and found him gazing down at her, his unimpressive brown eyes alight with mirth at the obvious fact that he had surprised her.

"Who are you?"

"Lieutenant Fetter."

"Well, the Captain and I are having a conversation, Lieutenant," Starbuck growled. "You'd best come back later."

"And who, exactly, are you?" Fetter asked.

"Lieutenant Thrace."

"Starbuck," Fetter said with a nod. "Yeah… I've heard of you."

"I bet." Starbuck turned to face Fetter for only a moment, her body language practically screaming, 'What are you still doing here?' Then she turned back to Apollo, clearly signaling that she expected Fetter to leave.

"Yeah, you're the one they got to teach at the Academy after I turned them down and handed in my wings," Fetter responded with a smirk, either missing or ignoring Starbuck's signals. She had trouble deciding whether she was more irritated by his presence or his comment.

"I was no one's second choice," Starbuck shot back, indulging in the momentary distraction of a second target for her wrath.

"If you say so," Fetter said with an uninterested shrug. His dismissal only served to infuriate her all the more, and the look in his eye told Starbuck that Fetter knew exactly what he was doing.

"I do say so." She was now glaring up at the taller pilot, hoping he would be stupid enough to take a swing at her.

"I'm sure." Fetter's smile grew even larger, and he laughed heartily. "Nah, I'm just funnin' ya, Starbuck. I was well and truly grounded long before you started babysitting nuggets. Apollo mentioned your name to me earlier; seems I owe you my thanks."

"Why's that?" Starbuck asked.

"You've volunteered your Viper for his first practice flight," Apollo said.

Starbuck tried to hide her shock and rage, but she knew from the delighted look on Apollo's face that she had failed miserably. "No way, Apollo," she protested. "I've been working on that damn thing for weeks. Tyrol and I just got the controls the way I like them. I don't need this guy taking her out and screwing her up."

"And maybe you'll think of that next time you're considering being insubordinate," Apollo said evenly.

"I wasn't being insubordinate, I was trying to make a point about pilot efficiency," Starbuck spat. "You're the C.A.G., it's your job to listen to those complaints and concerns, whether you want to hear them or not."

"She's got a point," Fetter commented.

"You stay out of this," Apollo warned.

"I think you just like to get your rocks off once in awhile by making me look bad in front of the other pilots," Starbuck said.

"You do a good enough job of that all on your own, Lieutenant," Apollo retorted. "The drinking, the gambling, the careless flying and constant disregard for the rules makes you a caricature of the pilot someone as gifted as you should be. But your attitude is just part of the problem. Unless you start getting it through your head that things are done the way they are for a reason, you're gonna get someone hurt." For a brief moment, Apollo wondered what had caused Starbuck to start behaving so out of control. Then he was hit by an uncomfortable epiphany – there was nothing different about her; he was the one who had changed. _While that devil-may-care attitude is endearing when I'm dealing with Kara Thrace, drinking buddy and fellow troublemaker extraordinaire, when I'm Captain Adama, the C.A.G., I can't help but see her as anything other than a disobedient headcase. I guess she's not the only one who has to learn how to deal with the three hats I wear in her life._

All Starbuck wanted was to leap over Lee's desk and start throttling him, but she kept her cool, despite the fact that her arms and legs were shaking from the adrenaline pumping through her veins. _When the hell did Lee start taking classes at the Colonel Tigh School of Command, anyway?_ "Is that all, Captain?" she managed to ask through her clenched jaw.

"Dismissed." Starbuck turned and strode away.

"Well I guess that wasn't the best first impression I've ever made," Fetter said once Starbuck had walked out of earshot. "Good thing you covered for me and got her so pissed at you that she forgot I even exist. You know, I always knew you'd make a good officer, Apollo. Real admiral material."

"You think so?" Apollo asked. He passed up the opportunity to indulge the daydream of what his life would have been like if he had chosen to devote himself to a career in the fleet instead of bouncing around from one pilot assignment to another, never much more than a glorified reservist.

"Well, that little sermon you gave Starbuck sounded eerily like what Admiral Nagala said to me when I was grounded for the fifth time."

"You don't say."

"No, wait… that was the sixth time. I forgot about the one for buzzing Commander Baxter's shuttle. Of course, Admiral Nagala's tirade lacked all the latent, unresolved sexual tension, but you were quite impressive."

"There's no unresolved sexual tension," Apollo said evenly. "And I can't believe that's still all you ever think about."

"First of all, it's not all I ever think about. Wine, women, and war – that's three things. Second, are you saying the tension is all resolved?" Fetter asked. "You two, you know," he said, making a few vulgar gestures with his hands, "makin' with the whoopee?"

"_Making with the whoopee_?" Apollo asked, unable to suppress a laugh. "How old are you now?"

"Older than you, Apollo," Fetter said. "You mind your elders."

"You're not that eld."

"And neither is Starbuck," Fetter said, returning their topic of conversation to Apollo's undisciplined pilot. "Young and spunky, just the way you used to like them. Like Athena. But maybe Starbuck is a little much for you now that you're all grown up. I know I don't think I could ever handle her."

"She does take some getting used to," Apollo admitted.

"It worth the trouble?"

"She's a damn good pilot," Apollo said.

"As good as I was?"

"Better than you ever were, Ares. Even better than Athena."

"Well then I guess I should make sure I get on her good side."

"For more reason than one," Apollo replied, a weary smirk curling his lips. "Remember when you were asking about cigars? She's the one with the stash."

_To be continued…………………………_


	3. Changes in the Routine

Ron Moore reimagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way meant to challenge any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**Author's Note:** I haven't written a story in this fandom yet, so it's a good bet that none of y'all are familiar with my writing. After reading comments from last chapter, I feel that maybe a small warning is necessary – I have no qualms about hurting or killing characters, no matter what reviewers may write and irrespective of whether those characters are popular or even my own personal favorites. If it serves the story (and _only_ if it serves the story... I don't take character pain or death lightly), I won't hesitate to take someone out. If you are adamantly against character death, then at some point, in something I may write (whether this story or another), you will not like my writing. I'm not saying anyone is slated to die in this story (and I have a great deal written and the rest completely outlined), and I'm likewise not saying everyone is safe. After putting up with complaints in earlier stories, though, I've learned that forewarned is forearmed.

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**III – Changes in the Routine**

"I'm sorry Ms. Donner, but I'm not exactly sure what it is you hope to accomplish by speaking to me," Dr. Baltar said, his gaze shifting nervously between the plain but strangely attractive author and the pouting cylon hallucination who was sliding out of a red sequined cocktail dress several feet behind his guest.

"Please, call me Tabitha," she said with an ingratiating grin. "I've had a few preliminary conversations with the president, and it's become apparent that I should also speak with those who know her best. The president has an extremely full schedule, so I thought it would be best if I spent some of my day with you."

"I don't have the lingerie – sorry, luxury – of free time any more than the president does," Baltar assured the writer. A quick glance in Six's direction let Baltar know that, for her part, she was no longer burdened by the luxury of lingerie. _Now what would be the best way to get Tabitha Plain-and-Short out of my lab?_

"My questions are all pretty straightforward, Mr. Vice President," Donner assured her host. "You could probably keep working and hardly notice me. Surely a man who's accomplished as much as you have at such a young age will be able to multi-task."

_Mr. Vice President,_ Baltar thought, letting the words bounce around in his mind. He loved the sound of that title, and he never thought he would get tired of hearing it. He had worked hard for years to earn the title of Doctor but had awkwardly stumbled into the title of Mr. Vice President; he found that, in retrospect, the amount of time and effort spent earning a title had little to do with the way he valued it. He looked away from Six and focused his gaze on Tabitha Donner.

"Gaius!" Six protested, realizing that Baltar had changed his mind as to who would receive his attention.

_Vice President Gaius,_ he chided, thinking the rebuke, hoping, for once, that she would be able to read his mind. He could not be sure whether his message had gotten through, but when he glanced back in the cylon's direction, she was gone. "Perhaps it's time I take a short break," Baltar said with a smile. It was the one piece of advice he could remember from the whirlwind tour that President Roslin had gave him after he became Vice President. _Always smile, Dr. Baltar. It makes you seem confident, secure, and trustworthy._

"Thank you, Mr. Vice President," Donner said, pulling a recorder and a notepad from her bag. "Is it okay with you if I tape our conversation?"

"Oh, of course," Baltar said, still smiling as he leaned back in his chair. "Wouldn't want you to misquote me or anything. Not with how important this whole thing may be."

"Now I'd like to start out the same way I did with President Roslin," Donner explained, already taking notes as she spoke. Baltar tried to get a view of what she was writing, but the author was doing a good job of keeping that hidden. He was certain it was all on purpose. "I'm not a reporter," Donner said, "so don't expect this to be written like a news story, simply covering the who, what, when, where, why, and how. At heart, I'm a novelist. Of course, this book is going to be facts and not some fictional fairy-tale, but my experience and style will demand that I write within some form of narrative."

"Of course."

"In order to get that narrative, I'll start out by asking for some background information." Donner brushed an unruly brown curl out of her face and settled her pale blue eyes on Baltar, her expression making him certain that she expected him to say something. He remained silent, so she continued. "It's like the saying that wars begin far before the first shot. I want to get at what really started the war, how it happened, how we were so vulnerable."

"Funny she would say that in those words," Six purred in Baltar's ears, inconveniently appearing right behind him. Over the months, he had grown strangely accustomed to being startled by her, but that didn't prevent him from jumping a slight bit at her words.

"Are you okay, Mr. Vice President?"

"Ah, yes… well, it's my back, actually," he lied, doing his best to cover up Six's unexpected reappearance while also hoping that this would give him a means of directing the conversation away from discussions of how the cylons were able to win such a quick, decisive victory. "I've been having these painful spasms lately. I think it's this lousy chair, but it's not like I can just call someone and requisition some ergonomic furniture."

"Probably couldn't have even before the war," Donner answered. "At least not on a battlestar. I can't imagine the military would have entertained a request like that."

"Probably not," Baltar agreed. "But I keep trying to remind myself that a few back spasms are really nothing in the whole scheme of things," he continued. Six was walking behind Donner, giving her a once-over with an expression that clearly told Baltar that his cylon paramour was disappointed in – and confused by – his decision to select the author's company over hers.

"The whole scheme of things?"

"Well, with things the way they are," Baltar clarified. "I can sit here and bitch and moan about having to spend twelve hours a day sitting in this debilitating chair, in this cold lab, with a mountain of work that I know full well will not be finished until near the very end of my expected lifespan. Or I could sit here and keep reminding myself that at least I have a purpose; I have something to do every day, rather than sit alone on some equally chilly ship full of strangers, all refugees who are just as alone because everyone they knew and loved is dead. I had no family to speak of, and my work pretty much precluded any semblance of a social life. So I didn't really lose anyone, at least not like most of the others did.

"I also have the comfort of knowing that I'm on the one warship in the fleet, so if the cylons come and blow up the ship, it's likely that I'm at least one of the last ones to die."

"And is that something you think about a lot?"

"I don't know that it can be helped," Baltar said. "In fact," he added, watching Six stretch out on a counter across the room, apparently deciding that she would wait until Baltar was done, "I find I have cylons on my mind a great deal of the time." That, at least, elicited a chuckle from Six's direction.

"I see." Again a notation in the notepad, and Gaius sat quietly for several moments as Donner continued to write at a frantic pace. "And you see yourself as lucky?"

"I suppose so. Like I said, I have my work, I have what passes for security in this day and age, and I have a chance to do something to help the rest of the survivors."

"And what is it that you do?"

"Well, obviously, there's the testing of blood samples," Baltar said, gesturing toward his bank of computers and a series of monitors across the room. He noticed that Six was looking increasingly bored, but he did his best to ignore her. "But I've also been trying to help in the way of organizing some of our resources."

"Food? Water?"

"No, human resources," Baltar explained. "It happened quite accidentally, actually. I was speaking with Laura--"

"--You mean President Roslin?"

"Yes. I was speaking to President Roslin, and I mentioned that it would be quite a great help if I could find an assistant or two. I joked that in the old days, I would simply go to the dean and ask for a few graduate students, and once we were done haggling over how much they would be paid for their time, I would instantly have extra staff. Of course, I expressed my disappointment that the dean didn't survive, because with money not meaning much now, the conversation would take all of about thirty seconds.

"Anyway, President Roslin mentioned that maybe we could, in fact, find me some help. That was when we began to discuss the census that just recently started up. Hopefully, we'll be able to find some people with some kind of college or professional experience that could be a help to me here. But we could also use mechanics, manual laborers who have experience with tool and die machines, computer technicians, and just about every other job under the sun. Or under the stars, I guess one would say now."

"So the census was your idea?"

"Partially, I would say," Baltar corrected. "As I said, it came out of a discussion with the President. She's an amazing woman, actually. She's uniquely inspired. And inspiring."

"Are you bucking for a raise, Gaius?" Six joked from her spot across the room. "I honestly didn't know you had it in you to kiss ass so well."

"Well, the president has certainly been an inspiration to the entire fleet," Donner said.

"Yes, but knowing her as I do, I find her to be so much more. I would almost call her a mentor, actually. I never really gave a thought to politics – I thought it was just what people did when they wanted to feel more impo7rtant than they actually are." Donner laughed at that, and Baltar smiled broadly. "Now that I'm suddenly in politics, and as the Vice President, no less, I find that there's actually so much more to it. Maybe it's because of the crises that we face on a daily basis, but this is certainly not just a job for one to satisfy his egomaniacal urges. This is a job that allows one to really make a difference, to serve his fellow man." Baltar stopped, noted that Six was gone yet again, and smiled warmly. "I guess that sounded really corny, didn't it?"

"Not at all, actually," Donner replied, brushing her hand through her hair once again, though this time there were no curls in her face. "I think you have a great deal of character."

"Well, I'm not entirely sure I know how to respond to that," Baltar said, locking his gaze on Donner's. "Maybe I should just discuss some of the other things that have come up in meetings with the president? Or are you on a tight schedule?"

"My calendar is completely clear," Donner assured him. "Right now, I'm all yours, Mr. Vice President."

-------------------------------------------------

"Okay, Starbuck, up and at 'em," Lee yelled, walking over and shaking Kara's bunk. She rolled over and scowled at him, somehow managing the expression while only opening one eye halfway.

"I'm sleeping, Lee," she grumbled, grabbing a worn, pancake-thin pillow and placing it over her face.

"Not anymore, Starbuck. I need you to fly a patrol; Kat is waiting for you on the flight deck."

"I'm grounded," Starbuck moaned from beneath her pillow, her arm blindly reaching out to push Lee away.

"You're hung over," Lee said.

"Well I thought I'd have the day off," Starbuck complained.

"You don't get days off, Lieutenant," Apollo responded. Starbuck removed the pillow and saw a sickeningly satisfied grin on the C.A.G.'s face. "You were grounded, that doesn't mean you get to drink and play cards for fourteen hours a day."

"I was on a winning streak. You can't expect me to walk away from the table while I'm winning."

"But I can expect you to be ready to fly the next morning."

"I'm grounded," Starbuck repeated.

"I need a pilot," Apollo said. "You're available."

"I'm sleeping."

"I seem to remember Zak telling me about this one time he got a pitcher of ice water," Lee commented.

"Don't even think about it," Starbuck threatened.

"I need a pilot," Apollo repeated.

"Why?" Starbuck asked, forcing her body into a seated position.

"If you had been up when you should have been, you wouldn't need to ask," Apollo said. "You would have known just by looking at Hyper."

"What's wrong with Hyper?"

"He says he's just sick," Lee answered, "but the pale skin and cold sweats say otherwise. I think he's been taking stims, just like Kat was. I think we may have to initiate some drug testing around here."

"Hyper would never take stims," Starbuck said, immediately jumping to her friend's defense. "Has the doc confirmed it?"

"Cottle says he's too busy to get back to me," Apollo griped. "He has half the deck shut down because they're decontaminating the sick bay."

"Huh?"

"No shipyards left, so we have to do decon on the fly," Apollo explained, once again smiling. "So that means there'll be so many chemicals being used down there that I know you ain't gonna go down to sickbay instead of a Viper. The stink would make you hurl faster than a plate full of soft-boiled eggs."

"Oh, don't mention eggs, Lee."

"It's not like I said they'd be over easy, all runny and gross mixing with bacon-fat."

"Oh, gods," Starbuck cursed, practically leaping down from her bunk and racing to the head.

"Once you're done puking, I need you down in pre-flight," Apollo called out, starting to whistle as he went back to work.

-------------------------------------------------

"Oh, hello," Ellen Tigh said, poring over the young marine standing in front of her. He was just a shade over six feet tall, with nice, broad shoulders, neatly trimmed brown hair, and emerald-green eyes that drew her in, though not remotely against her will. He seemed to be in his early- to mid-thirties, and she definitely did not recognize him. "Who might you be?"

"Ma'am, I was told that I should come here and check in with Colonel Tigh," the marine responded.

"Is it important?"

"No, Ma'am," he answered, his expression devoid of any hint of emotion.

Ellen Tigh was used to getting a reaction, be it irritation, flirtation, or simple unease. _But this one seems completely oblivious. I guess he's what Saul would call a good marine._ "And are the marines going to make a habit of coming by our quarters when there isn't anything important to discuss?" she asked coyly, trying harder to get a reaction as she also probed for information.

"Ma'am, I'm in no position to make any statements regarding the future procedures the commander may or may not utilize."

"So the commander sent you?"

"I was sent to report to the colonel," the marine reiterated. "If he's not here, I'll look somewhere else."

"Oh, all right," Ellen muttered. "He's here… in the shower. Would you like to come in and wait?" She knew there was something going on, something Saul had been reluctant to discuss. Perhaps the marine would be more forthcoming. _Besides, it's always nice to make new friends._

"No ma'am, I can come back later."

"Who's there?" a gravelly man's voice asked from inside the quarters.

"One of your marines, Saul," Ellen said, opening the door wider and walking from the doorway. She made certain she stayed close, though. If something important was going on, she wanted to know all she could about it.

"Who're you?" Colonel Tigh asked, completely unconcerned that he was standing halfway out in the hall with only a towel covering him.

"Name's Jack Rutger, sir," the marine answered. "I was on the transport that just arrived in the fleet. Commander Adama sent me down here to talk to you."

"Why'd he do that?"

"He said the marines fall under your authority," Rutger explained.

"And you're a marine?"

"I was, sir. I guess you could say I've been reactivated from the reserves. The commander wants me available to stay on the Chimera. He plans on using it as an extra Raptor, I think. But when the ship's not out, I'm supposed to get my orders from you."

"You do realize that you should probably report to Sergeant Hadrian, don't you? She can give you your duties. No reason to come to me during my time off."

"Thing is that I was a major," Rutger said. "Commander Adama said that would make me your second-in-command, so he thought it would be a good idea if maybe I talked to you before I did anything else."

"Yeah… You look young for a major."

"I am, sir," Rutger agreed, no shortage of pride on his face. "Got my promotions due to distinctions in combat. I was Colonial Marine Recon, sir."

"Special Forces."

"That's where I met Lieutenant Fetter, sir."

"Well, I don't know what I'm gonna do with you," Saul grumbled. "Why don't you stay up by that transport of yours for a bit and give me a chance to figure out where you fit in. The commander and I are really in it right now, and I haven't had a second since the attacks… I'm going to have to see what I can give you besides guard duty in the brig."

"I understand, sir. I'll be on the flight deck, sir." Rutger saluted and turned on his heel, his quick stride echoing away down the hall as Saul turned to his wife.

"A major," he commented with a shrug. "Well I'll be a monkey's uncle."

"And what are you going to do with him, Saul?" Ellen asked. She could not believe that Saul was taking the development so lightly; it was obvious that his position was in danger.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, yesterday there were no Marine officers, so they all fell under your authority," Ellen pointed out. "Technically, you're no Marine, Saul; you're a fleet officer. Now that they have a major, they don't need you."

"Then thank the gods," Saul muttered. "Maybe you haven't noticed, spending your time in our quarters as much as you do, but being the XO of a battlestar that's always on the brink of annihilation keeps me busy enough as it is. If Bill wants to give command of the marines to this Rutger, he's welcome to it."

"Oh, and wouldn't that be great," Ellen spat, turning her back on her husband and filling a glass with ambrosia. "The marines would really respect you then."

"Huh?"

"Think for a second, Saul. For once, just think it through. When Bill was shot, the only thing that kept the ship running was order, order handed down from you as the next in the chain of command. The marines were yours, unquestioningly, loyally, and no one would move against you – and threaten the order we need – as long as the marines were yours. If Major Ruger--"

"Rutger."

"Whatever his name is," Ellen shot back, chugging her drink and getting an immediate refill. "If he gets the marines, then you won't have them. Hell, if Bill hands off the marines to the first officer who comes along, the enlisted men will be laughing in their cups. You'll lose all respect, Saul… and then what happens if something else bad happens to Bill?"

"Nothing bad will happen to Bill."

Ellen almost puked when she heard the tone in her husband's voice. _Fear. He's full of fear, and it shows every time he thinks about Bill dying. He's afraid of command, even though he knows it could come to him at any time. I have to make him see how capable he is, how deserving he is. How entitled he is._ "You never thought anything bad would happen to Bill, but that didn't stop a cylon assassin from gunning him down in the C.I.C., right in front of you while you did nothing."

"Oh hell, not this again," Saul muttered, suddenly finding that he could not get ready for his shift quickly enough.

"Not _what_ again?"

"That's it, Ellen," Tigh said, his tone suddenly ringing with the authority of a bridge officer. It was music to Ellen's ears. "There will be no more discussion about this, is that understood?"

"Yes, Saul." Ellen walked away and sat down, picking up a book and pretending to read as Saul continued to dress. _Why is it that he can only muster the force of will to command _me_, and only after I egg him on?_ she wondered. _By all rights, he's the second most powerful man in the fleet. If only he would figure that out. If only he would act on it. Our lives would be so much better then._

_To be continued…………………………_


	4. Gathering Clouds

Ron Moore reimagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way meant to challenge any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**IV – Gathering Clouds**

"There are plenty of people in the fleet who are devoted to my cause," Tom Zarek said, his icy stare boring into the eyes of the young man seated across from him. "There are even those who are devoted to me, personally, feeling that that is, in some way, better than just embracing my ideals."

"I'm definitely one of those pe--"

"I'm not done," Zarek said, holding up a hand to stop his visitor mid-sentence. "There's no shortage of people who are willing to die for me… or kill for me." His guest had nothing to say to that. "I don't say any of this to brag, so don't get that impression. I tell you this because I want you to understand that, as far as supporters go, there's very little I need."

"And you want to know what I have to offer you," the young man surmised.

"Assuming there's anything to offer."

"I was able to get a private meeting," the young man pointed out. "That's something."

"Perhaps." Zarek continued to stare down his visitor, but the young man did not shy away; his brown eyes kept staring right back, never indicating even the slightest degree of discomfort. Finally, several minutes later, Zarek smiled. "No one's ever lasted that long," he commented.

"It's not like I have much else to do."

"I suppose not."

"So what'll you give me in return for my information?" the young man asked, surprising Zarek with his even, businesslike tone. He guessed his visitor was no more than nineteen, possibly twenty years old. He was growing a bit of stubble – Zarek was sure it was intended to make him look older and more dangerous – but the facial hair was still little more than peach fuzz, even paler than the blonde hair on the young man's head. _But he's calm. Smart, and calm. This one might have some potential._

"Assuming there's anything I have to give, what is it, exactly, that you want?"

"A job."

"You've already told me that," Zarek reminded him. That simple request had been the first thing the young man had mentioned when he walked in.

"So I presume you'd like me to be more specific."

"Like I said, I have a lot of people who support me already," Zarek responded, leaning back slightly in his chair, enjoying his position in the conversation. "Everyone new means another mouth I have to make sure gets fed, another person I need to find a place to live. If I spend all my time providing favors, there'll be no time left to accomplish my goals."

"It's a quandary," the young man said with a smirk, displaying the kind of arrogant sarcasm that only a teenager can ever properly muster. Zarek found he was definitely starting to like the kid.

"A job," Zarek thought out loud. "You realize, of course, that no job I found you would possibly pay anything. At least not in the old sense."

"That's good, since even a salary of a million cubits a day wouldn't mean a whole helluva lot given the fact that there's no place to spend my money. I'll work for a room to myself, some hot food in my stomach, and the chance to be near you."

"Near me?"

"Decisions are made when you're in the room," the young man explained. "Before you walk in, things are a certain way. When you walk back out, things are different. I don't want to be one of the people waiting outside to find out what changed. I want to be in the room when it all goes down; I want to see how you make your decisions."

"And you want a voice in those decisions."

"That would be pretty presumptuous of me, don't you think?"

"I do."

"Then I'll remember that you think of me as being presumptuous," the young man said with a smile.

"Also remember that this job you ask for comes with a price," Zarek pointed out. "You said you have information, information that would call into question the leadership of both Adama and Roslin."

"I know what I said."

"And you were telling the truth?"

"Do I seem the type who'd lie about something like that?"

"If it suited your purposes," Zarek said, realizing how much the young man reminded him of himself when he was younger. _Doesn't really matter what he says, _Zarek decided. _I'm keeping this kid close, lest someone else find him and realize he's a diamond in the rough._

"Then I guess I have to work on appearing more sincere."

Zarek laughed. "So what's your name?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. He found it was possible to tell a great deal about a person based solely on how he said his own name.

"Deaq. Deaq Connor."

"Well then, Deaq," Zarek said with a satisfied smile, "Why don't you tell me what you know that could bring down both Adama and Roslin?"

-------------------------------------------------

"President Roslin?" Billy Keikeya asked softly from outside the door, obviously making certain he did not wake her up if she was asleep.

"Come on in," Laura called out. Billy opened the door and walked in, greeting her with a warm smile. She was amused by how much he had grown into the role of her assistant. On the first day of his internship, he had been absolutely mousy. _And that was when I was only the Secretary of Education._ He had just started to come out of his shell when the attack came and Roslin had become president. That had thrown him off balance, though her medical condition had made him strongly protective of the woman who awed him so. "What do you need, Billy?"

"It's the press again," he explained. "They're not happy about you canceling the meeting of the Quorum of Twelve on _Cloud Nine_."

"Is that all?"

"They're also a little suspicious about why you haven't been seen in public for the past few days."

"I've been busy," Roslin explained needlessly. If anyone knew how hard she had been working lately, it was Billy.

"They think you've taken ill," he told her.

"And you explained that I'm healthy?"

"They need to see you for themselves," he told her. "You know how rumors get started. People are always willing to believe the worst unless they have proof otherwise."

"Proof that isn't good enough unless they get to see it with their own eyes."

"But if you go out there, the press is going to grill you about the canceled assembly," Billy warned her.

"Yes, I'm sure Tom Zarek has made certain the question will come up," Roslin muttered under her breath. She knew Billy had heard her, but he did not reply. "Fine, schedule a press conference for tomorrow," the president instructed. "Set it for noon."

Billy was halfway out the door when Roslin decided something else. "And Billy," she added, "contact _Galactica_ on a secure transmission. Send a message to Adama. Tell him we'll have our meeting tonight. At midnight."

"Ma'am?"

"I'll explain on the way over to _Galactica_," Roslin assured him. Tell him to include anyone he thinks should be there. It's left to his discretion."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And Billy," Roslin called out as the door was closing.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Get something to eat," she ordered him. "Anastasia is going to blame me if you waste away to nothing."

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a smile, leaving the president alone to figure out what she was going to tell the press, and how she might be able to sugarcoat the news.

-------------------------------------------------

"Gaius, wake up," Six said brusquely. Baltar forced his eyelids open and gazed across the dimly lit room, seeing her standing just inside the door.

"I'm sleeping," he complained tiredly. "Whatever you have to say can wait until later."

"It's only dinner time," Six objected. "You should be up and alert."

"I've been working for almost thirty hours," Baltar countered. "I don't feel a need to adhere to the old Colonial 24-hour day, dear. I wake up and work when I will, and sleep when I feel I need it. I don't seem to remember a sunrise or sunset lately that would inspire me to do otherwise."

"Fascinating," Six muttered in a voice that clearly indicated it was anything but. "I need to speak with you."

"Leave a message like anyone else," Baltar said, rolling over, his face only inches from the wall. "If you look on my desk, I believe you'll find the imaginary answering machine I have for imaginary cylons."

"This is important."

"You always say that."

"And have I ever been wrong?"

"There's always a first time," Baltar quipped, though the effort of having the conversation had helped clear a great many of the cobwebs in his head. _I might as well get up,_ he decided. "Fine," he spat, sitting up and looking at his impatient cylon visitor. "What do you want this time?"

"I want to speak with you."

"You're already doing that."

"Something is wrong," Six told him.

"I assumed that already," Baltar replied. "Your greater than normal impatience was a dead giveaway."

"Something is wrong in the fleet, Gaius," Six explained. "Something you need to deal with."

"What?" Gaius was embarrassed by the concern he heard in his own voice. He always tried to appear coolly unfazed by anything Six told him, despite his constant thoughts that she could probably read his mind, anyway, so his shows of unconcerned bravado were vaudeville. "Are we about to be attacked?"

"Do you truly believe that an attack will come as long as our child is in the fleet?"

"I didn't believe your first attack was going to come, and that didn't turn out so well for me," Baltar pointed out caustically. He certainly wished Six would just get to the point; it was tiresome having to guess at the answer every time there was a crisis. _One might expect that she'd be a little more forthcoming with answers when it's important,_ he thought angrily. _Just like the tylium mine… would it really have been a chore to stand next to the photo and say, 'Shoot here'?_ "So there's an emergency," Baltar prompted.

"The entire fleet could be at risk."

"I'm touched by your concern," Baltar answered, "but I've been wondering something lately."

"If this is another crisis of faith--"

"No, this is anything but," Baltar assured her. "In fact, I think my concerns are the result of me believing too much."

"Do tell," Six replied with a thin, impatient smile and an indulgent wave of her hand. Baltar knew that expression well; it was the look she had every time she explained to him how he simply needed to have faith in her god and his own place in the universe. Baltar wanted nothing more than to knock that self-important grin right off her face.

"You've assured me that I'm god's instrument," Baltar said. Six nodded. "Well, if I'm so important – and if our child is so bloody significant – and if your god is really looking out for me, I really don't have to worry, do I?"

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not simply god's instrument, my dear. By your own reckoning, I hold a very special place in God's heart and plans. So instead of asking, 'How high?' every time your god tells me to jump, I'm just going to sit here."

"You're _what_?"

"I'm going to do whatever I want for a change," Baltar told her.

"That's not how it's supposed to be, Gaius."

"Sure it is," Baltar replied, ignoring the icy stare the cylon was leveling at him. "According to you, my destiny has already been written. The whole free will versus determinism dilemma concerned me for a while because my fragile human ego insisted on embracing the premise that I control my own destiny. But apparently, I don't. Isn't that so?"

"Haven't I already proven as much to you?"

"You have," Baltar said, practically giggling, wondering if his strange train of thought was the effect of inspiration or sleep deprivation. _Probably a generous helping of both, actually._ "And since I know that the outcome of my actions is preordained, I think that instead of doing what you tell me, I'm going to take another nap."

"Gaius!" Six yelled, apparently hoping to intimidate him.

"Not now," Balter answered, refusing to be concerned by the anger of a non-corporeal delusion. "It's time to sleep."

"There's something you have to do," Six told him.

"I don't doubt it," Baltar replied. "According to prophecy, I must now get some sleep. I know this because it's what I'm about to do, and since it's what I'm going to do, it must have been prophesied thusly."

"You mock me, and you mock God."

"Far from it," Baltar assured her. "You see, this nap is preordained. It's holy."

"That's blasphemous."

"There are some who would say the same thing about your monotheistic cult."

"I didn't see your gods helping you any when the cylons attacked," Six seethed.

"And I didn't see your god appear from the ether to stop this antique battlestar from slipping through your fingers."

"Galactica's escape and flight was prophesied."

"I know," Baltar said. "Although it's certainly convenient to look back and blame your failures on the premise that god wanted it that way; you would have made a great politician, dear. Regardless of whether we were meant to escape, your willingness to allow us to survive means this god of yours still needs us, despite the fact that our gods have no use for the cylons. How does that make you feel?"

"Enjoy your nap, Gaius," Six snapped. Baltar wondered how it was possible to feel fury roll off a hallucination.

"Oh, I will," he assured Six. He laid down and enjoyed the peaceful silence that immediately descended upon his mind. "I'll be right here if you need anything," he called out to the empty air. "Though please ask god to make sure he schedules his prophecies around my naps from now on."

_To be continued…………………………_


	5. The Final Calm Before the Storm

Ron Moore reimagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way meant to challenge any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

**V – The Final Calm Before the Storm**

"Of course, only now, after half the pilots on the Galactica have fallen to my superior skills, does our fearless C.A.G. finally enter the fray," Starbuck said with a smile, looking down at Apollo from the hatch of a Viper that had been too heavily damaged to be put back into service. "Hoping I'm a little tired, that I've lost my edge?"

"So it's true," Apollo commented, smiling up at Starbuck and then glancing around at the rest of his pilots. "A working simulator."

"Well, sort of," Starbuck answered. "Doc Drake did the best he could. The simulation computer works as well as the one back at the Academy, and the link between the two simulators seems just fine, no matter what Hot Dog might say about the computer making him seem like he's reacting slower than he really is," she joked, casting a sideways glance at the best of the new Viper pilots. Hot Dog was shaking his head as he climbed down from the cockpit of a second banged-up Viper, its cockpit systems torn out and replaced by a flight simulation computer and viewscreen. "Still, the frame is stuck in place, so there's no sense of movement, and I think Kat must have thrown up in here or something the first time she saw a cylon raider, because there's a bit of a funky smell from before it was turned into scrap."

"I did not," Kat protested.

"It was a hangover, not a cylon raider," Hot Dog joked. Kat could only shrug her shoulders at that.

"So we can train new pilots without starting them in the cockpit of a real Viper," Apollo said. "Good idea. And much safer. Just wish someone would have told me."

"And ruin the surprise?" Starbuck asked. "Where would the fun have been in that? Besides, this gives us far more than just a new feature for flight school, Apollo – this gives us a chance to do combat training. True, we get none of the G-forces we got at the simulators at the Academy, and there're only two simulators, so we can't do squadron training, but for what we have to work with, I think this is great."

"It's not bad," Apollo admitted, running his hand along the cracked fiberglass frame of the simulator Starbuck was sitting in. "In fact, it's pretty damn good. You said Dr. Drake did this?"

"He's an engineer," Starbuck answered with a shrug. "Isn't that what his type are supposed to do?"

"I suppose so." Apollo glanced at the other pilots and noted that not only were they all looking right back at him, none of them had climbed into the other simulator's cockpit. He could tell that they expected him to get in and challenge Starbuck. It was impossible to hide his amusement at that. "So you said you've already beaten half the pilots?"

"Sure have."

"Well, I already saw Hot Dog's face, so I guess he didn't last long."

"Not long at all."

"Kingston?"

"Even less."

"Catman?"

"Ran away screaming like I was a junkyard dog."

"Joker?"

"Left here crying."

"Ares?"

"The first to fall. Can't believe he actually graduated from the Academy. Then again, seeing other examples from that particular class, he might have graduated with high honors." Starbuck gazed down with a wicked grin on her face. "Sir."

"Once again, Lieutenant, I think your ego's writing checks your body can't cash."

"You talk tough as badly as you fly," Starbuck teased.

"Okay, Lieutenant, let's see what you got," Apollo said, climbing into the other cockpit and closing the canopy. The inside was lined with a thin LCD screen with surprisingly good resolution. A galaxy's worth of stars, all just pinpoints of light on the black background of the screen, gave the illusion that he was actually adrift in space and not safe on _Galactica's_ flight deck. Apollo put on the helmet and immediately heard Ares' voice over the com. "You heard what she said, Apollo?"

"Sure did."

"You're defending the honor of our entire class now. Don't screw up."

"That's your pep talk, Ares?" Starbuck asked. "_Don't screw up_? You can't do better than that?"

"Cut the chatter," Ares grumbled. "I'm starting the simulation now. You're operating in unexplored space in orbit around a gas giant with seventeen moons."

"Good simulation program," Apollo muttered as a bright orange planet appeared on-screen, dominating his vision. Small, rocky moons and a thin ring of ice and dust joined it moments later.

"It gets better," Ares said. "I'm adding in a few cylon raiders."

"How many is a few?" Apollo asked.

"That's a surprise," Ares answered. "Now don't screw up."

No sooner had Ares finished speaking than a red light started flashing, accompanied by a weapons lock warning. "What the hell?" Apollo cursed, slipping into a barrel roll and diving toward the planet. He hoped to take advantage of the planet's gravity, only realizing after he was committed to the tactic that he was unsure whether Drake's program would account for the planet's gravity well and its effect on maneuvering. Moments later, he realized the program would handle at least that much. The controls grew heavier, slightly sluggish, and blue weapons fire flickered across the screen. He knew he'd almost been hit, and he was finding it impossible to shake the raider. No matter what he tried, the raider stayed glued to him, its picture seemingly pasted to Apollo's tactical screen. Then, from behind a nearby moon, another contact appeared on his tail. Seconds later, the raider was gone.

"Got him, Apollo, you're clear," Starbuck said cheerily.

"I didn't need any help," Apollo assured her, changing course before his Viper clipped the planet's outer atmosphere. "I had him right where I wanted him."

"You mean right on your six, moments from a weapons lock?" Starbuck asked, not bothering to hide an amused chuckle. "I was only joking about your Academy class before, but jeez… what did they teach you guys?"

Apollo hit the thrusters and made for the nearest moon, only to find another raider appearing from behind it. It launched a missile, but Apollo dodged that attack and easily destroyed the cylon ship. In the intervening moments, Starbuck had disappeared.

"Hiding, Starbuck?"

"From you, Apollo? Never. I'm just choosing my moment is all."

"Oh, is that what you call it?"

"Timing's everything. You're the C.A.G., you should know all about timing. You deal with it all the time while you sit behind your desk, writing up C.A.P. schedules and fuel consumption reports."

"Don't forget the time I spend writing up official reprimands," Apollo answered. "Though I guess you've seen enough of them that I can be sure you won't forget."

Blue weapons fire appeared again, this time at the very edge of Apollo's line of sight. He turned in that direction and hit his thrusters, hoping to catch Starbuck while she was distracted with the cylon.

"Oh, frack," Starbuck yelled. "Hey, umm… Apollo… Captain C.A.G., sir, wanna hear a crazy idea?"

"What's that?" Apollo asked, dropping into a low orbit around a large, rocky moon, accelerating sharply and loving the fact that the simple simulator did not so much as hint at the G-forces he would be feeling in a real Viper. _Just a few seconds,_ he thought, knowing Starbuck would be coming into his sights at any moment.

"How about we gang up on all these cylons, first?" Starbuck suggested.

"Huh?" Apollo's tactical screen showed the outline of a Viper coming straight at him, streaking along in a low orbit just as he was, but in the opposite direction – almost directly at him. "What the--"

"Frack!" Starbuck yelled. Apollo yanked back on the stick and flew up directly into the path of a cylon raider that had been trailing Starbuck. The screen went black, and Apollo knew that meant he was dead. Not that he needed to see the screen; Starbuck's taunts let him know well enough. "I rule!" she shouted gleefully.

"My screen says you're dead, too," Ares' voice commented. "Someone appears to have dove too sharply and torn her Viper in half."

"You never said this moon had any kind of atmosphere," Starbuck complained.

"Your scanners would have told you had you bothered to check," Ares chided. "Maybe they never mentioned that to your Academy class, but I remember hearing something about the importance of terrain while Apollo and I were learning to fly."

"Well, I still didn't buy it until after he did," Starbuck called out as she opened the canopy, looking down to see the pilots exchanging cubits to collect on – or pay off – bets.

"Well, 'She didn't die until after her opponent' will look very nice on your tombstone," Apollo joked as he climbed out of the other simulator. "Now what do you say we go and get some food?"

-------------------------------------------------

"I'm going to have to get back soon, you know," Ellen Tigh commented, her right hand idly stroking the hair on Tom Zarek's chest.

"I know."

"And I don't know when I'll be able to get back here," she added, inching her body closer to his, enjoying the heat that was rolling off of his skin. It was something she missed with Saul; he just didn't seem to be as warm as he used to be. She needed a younger man for that warmth. "Shuttle traffic between ships has slowed to the point it's almost nonexistent. I won't be able to get over here for just a few hours at a time, knowing I won't be missed. The only way I got over here this time is because Saul and I had a fight. He practically begged me to go to _Cloud Nine_ for a couple of days."

"Still think he's hiding something?"

"Him and Bill, both."

"And Roslin," Tom muttered. "First she canceled the assembly of the Quorum of Twelve, ostensibly because of an unspecified security concern. Then she uses the same vague, unspecified threat to shut down all nonessential shuttle traffic. I don't like it… they're all up to something."

Ellen sighed contentedly as she moved closer, half of her body now lying against Zarek. She had waited a long time to feel as if he trusted her, and now he was finally speaking freely in front of her. "You don't have any idea what it is?"

"I've heard a rumor," Tom admitted. "But it seemed a little farfetched, and I haven't seen anything to back it up. Then again…"

"Yes?"

"Well, let's just say I'm keeping my options open," Tom answered, disappointing her by not revealing everything he knew and planned. "I've put a few people in position to take advantage of the situation if the rumor is true."

"Just in case," Ellen surmised.

"Yeah, just in case."

"Roslin is sick, isn't she?" Ellen guessed. "She's finally becoming too debilitated to run the fleet. Not that she has any choice," Ellen thought out loud. "Her popularity makes her untouchable, unbeatable politically, but that power comes from being the object of a prophecy that mandates that she dies. Soon."

"Prophecies do tend to have a downside," Tom commented.

"Maybe they've all started to rethink their use of the prophecies," Ellen suggested, voicing a concern that she had ever since Roslin had claimed to be the leader spoken of in the Pythian prophecies.

"It's a little late for that," Zarek said, his voice punctuated with a wry, satisfied laugh. "Can't put the genie back in the bottle."

"Perhaps. So I guess now you only need to emerge as the Condemned Man," Ellen said with a grin, referring to the man Pythia had prophesied would rise to succeed the deceased leader. "And when the leader of the people succumbs to death, the Condemned Man will rise, and the people will forgive him for having opposed their lost Leader," Ellen recited.

"And the Condemned Man will achieve atonement, and he will present the people with a vision of their future," Zarek finished for her, "And the vision will deliver the people to Earth."

-------------------------------------------------

"So this is where you slinked off to," Apollo commented with a thin smile, looking up at Ares. He was lying on his back on a scaffold, poring over the barrel of a quad turret on the ventral side of his ship.

"Figured Starbuck wouldn't sit idly by as people ribbed the two of you for that simulation," Ares said. "I knew I'd end up getting reminded about her beating me about a dozen times before the end of dinner. What really frosts my cookies is that when I was still flying, I coulda taken her no problem."

"You think so?"

"Well… not really," Ares replied with a grin that suddenly reminded Apollo of Starbuck. "But I think the computer in my simulator was slower than hers."

"Hot Dog _did_ seem to agree with you."

"You didn't believe him either, did you?"

"Not so much." Lee let out a small laugh and started looking over Ares' ship. "Controls seemed fine to me." For the briefest moment, Apollo was touched by a sense of déjà vu – a smiling Ares making flimsy, farfetched excuses for losing a dogfight simulation against another supremely gifted female pilot. He had spent so many years trying to forget about Ares – and Athena – and now his old friend was back. And so were the memories.

"I assume you're here for the grand tour," Ares said with a gesture toward his ship, knocking Apollo out of his trip down memory lane.

"I got tired of your buddy Drake stalling me," Apollo explained. "There was always something that needed to be cleaned up, some dangerous circuit board that needed to be covered up for safety's sake."

"He doesn't like strangers paying too close attention to his baby," Ares responded. He climbed down from the scaffold and looked up, an unmistakable pride in his eye.

Apollo did not see all that much to be proud of, though he kept his mouth shut. The _Chimera_ was small by a freighter's standards, the kind of ship he knew was favored by smugglers and pirates. Shipyards referred to the YT-1300 model as a stock light freighter and provided it with bland, generic parts that made it spaceworthy but wholly unremarkable. About seventy-five feet long and sixty feet at its widest point, vaguely oval in shape with a cylindrical cockpit attached to the front, Apollo had always thought the YT-1300 looked somewhat turtle-like. _A turtle with anti-ship weaponry mounted on its back and stomach,_ he thought, allowing a slight grin to brighten his expression.

"Not what you expected me to be flying, is it?" Ares asked.

"Last time we spoke, you were still flying Vipers," Apollo answered. He was surprised how he suddenly realized, in that moment, how long it had been since he had spoken to someone who had once been one of his closest friends, and how much older Ares now seemed. _It's been… Damn, it's been a long time_, he reminded himself. "I remember shooting some of these things down… pirates that were using the remains of Troy as a base."

"Yeah, well… those pirates didn't have Drake outfitting them. You might not be here if they did."

"So what does this thing have?"

"The quad turret right there has four fire-linked KEW cannons," Ares said, pointing at the ventral weapons. "Basically twice the firepower of a standard Viper's twin KEW cannons."

"And you're about to tell me you scavenged those."

"There were lots of half-destroyed Vipers floating around out there."

"Uh-huh." Ares looked so sincere that for a moment – and only a moment – Apollo was tempted to believe that his old friend had not purchased the weaponry on the black market long before the cylons attacked. "Wasn't that cannon on the ventral side when you joined the fleet?"

"Good eye," Ares responded. "Yup. It's not only great for anti-ship combat, it makes a seriously bad-ass weapon for strafing ground-based targets. Well, unless it's on the ventral side, that is. Then it sucks, because the ship would have to fly inverted to get a shot on a ground-based target. So we switched them. Less chance of Drake hurling all over the controls this way."

"Uh-huh. Seems this new alignment also keeps that mystery weapon of yours out of clear view," Apollo pointed out.

"I never said there was only one advantage."

"So what's the other turret?"

"Purely experimental," Ares answered. "We've fired it a few times, so we know it won't blow us up if we use it, but it was only in test situations."

"Good to know," Apollo said with a slight nod. "But I still don't know what it is."

"It's Drake's pet project," Ares responded with a shrug. "I don't fully understand it myself. He calls it an ion cannon, though he says it's actually two separate weapons in one – an EMP and a static charge generator. It's designed to temporarily disable a ship, to short out its systems without blowing it up."

"That's the kind of thing a pirate would find valuable."

"Bounty hunters, too. Colonial government was never big on the dead-or-alive thing. Alive meant far bigger paydays and a small hill of paperwork instead of a mountain." Ares gestured Apollo to follow him as he began walking toward the front of the ship.

"So you're telling me your Dr. Drake went to all that trouble just to avoid paperwork?" Apollo asked dubiously.

"We hate paperwork, Apollo. We absolutely _hate it_. Besides, the ion cannon had an unexpected virtue."

"What's that."

"It completely fries the circuitry of cylon raiders," Ares said.

"What?"

"Figure'd that'd get your attention," Ares said. "We found out completely by accident, when we used a crippled raider in one of our tests. Drake's working on a mock-up for a larger version, something that could be used as an area-effect weapon of some sort. He wants to be able to disable a squadron at a time."

"Like they did with us."

"Of course, we'd need a warship to mount it on."

"So if and when he writes up his specs, you're gonna expect me to take it the commander on your behalf," Apollo guessed.

"Well, the _Chimera_ is a fighter support craft, Apollo, and you _do_ happen to be the C.A.G.," Ares pointed out. "I'm just following the proper chain of command."

"So long as you don't expect any special treatment from the commander just because he happens to be my father."

"Hey, he was enough of a bastard to make you the C.A.G.," Ares answered. "Father or not, I gotta figure he doesn't like you so much."

"Thanks for caring." Apollo couldn't help but smile at his old friend's sarcasm.

"That's what I'm here for, Apollo." The two men had reached the font of the ship, and Ares pointed up. "There're two more KEW cannons mounted above the cockpit," he said. "Those are controlled by the pilot."

"The ventral cannon isn't?"

"No. We need a separate gunner for that," Ares explained. "The tactical computer can handle it, but there're a lot of intricate, expensive, and frustratingly delicate robotics to install to control a cannon that size; it just isn't as cost effective as carrying an extra crewman. That's why your father… I'm sorry, the commander," Ares amended with a sly smile, "allowed us to keep our team together. I'm the pilot, and Rutger and Drake are the gunners."

"And I assume Drake works the ion cannon."

"Well, he _is_ the one who built it. He's a little possessive. Gets jealous if anyone else handles it. Anyway, the last weapons we have are the concussion missiles," Ares said, pointing out four concealed launch tubes, two to the left of the cockpit, and two to the right. "There's also one tube that fires from the stern. Five tubes, payload of fifteen missiles."

"I assume they're standard Colonial Harpy III's," Apollo guessed.

"Wouldn't make much sense to custom design something when the Harpy is fairly available ordnance," Ares said. "We're down to six of them, though, in case you could grease the wheels for me and put in a request to the master at arms."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Fantastic."

"A couple of the pilots are planning a big card game tonight," Apollo said, remembering the ludicrous amount of time Ares had always spent with his fellow officers. "You know, in case you're interested."

"Maybe," Ares replied with a shrug. "As long as I know the _Chimera_ is ready for action, first."

"Not like you to pass up a good time."

"Ain't nothing better than being out there, though," Ares commented with a smile.

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

"Hey, you're the one who said it."

"It's not something I can really explain," Ares responded with a shrug. "I tried to explain it to Drake, but he thought I was crazy."

"Explain what?"

"Well, thing is," Ares began hesitantly, "I… well, hear me out, okay? Let me finish before you decide I'm nuts."

"I already think you're nuts."

"Then I guess I have nothing to lose by shootin' off my mouth. See, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm almost happy that the cylons attacked," Ares said.

Apollo had no idea how to respond to that.

"It's not that I'm glad billions of people died, okay?" Ares continued hastily. "Don't think I'm saying that. It's just that I always wondered what it would feel like to be on the losing end of a hopeless cause, knowing every day I wake up that I'm living on borrowed time, that I won't have the luxury of dying of old age because some cylon is gonna take me out long before then. Epic, you know? I always liked those stories, growing up. Didn't always end well, but it was a hell of a ride."

"Nice, Ares," Apollo said. "Thanks for cheering me up."

"Think about it, though," Ares replied. "Just accept that you're gonna die out there, sooner or later, and I think it makes everything better. Since I accepted that, I've actually felt more _alive_ than I ever have before. I'm not like the vast majority of the people who used to live in the Colonies, all of them worker bees who never really lived a single day of their lives. I'm a soldier championing a lost cause."

"A hero?"

"Only if I survive to the end," Ares said with a broad smile. "I remember being a kid and reading one of my favorite books. I began to wonder why the story was about the main character, why it couldn't instead have been about his best friend, an old mentor-type who was by his side most of the way. Then, about three quarters of the way through the book, the mentor died; then it was pretty obvious why the book wasn't about him. What pretty much separates the hero from the supporting characters is the simple detail that the hero survives to the end."

"And he wins, of course."

"Obviously," Ares agreed. "But in a war like the one we're in, winning means surviving. There's no in between with the cylons – either we win, or we die."

"Once again – not exactly cheering me up, Lieutenant."

"It could be worse," Ares said. "After all, you could be out here all alone. Instead, you got your old buddy, Ares. And I guess we might as well let Starbuck come along on our ride to greatness, too."

"I'm sure she'll be happy to hear that," Apollo responded, stifling a chuckle at the absurd thought that either one of them could stop Starbuck from 'coming along for the ride' if that's what she decided she wanted to do.

"So, Apollo… where was that card game, anyway?"

_To be continued…………………………_


	6. Into the Tempest

Ron Moore reimagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way meant to challenge any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

**VI – Into the Tempest**

"You're late, Captain," Commander Adama told Apollo as he walked into the situation room. He tried to hide his surprise as he looked around at the other people seated around the table, all apparently waiting for him. Apollo had expected that he had screwed up some more paperwork and that his father had once again chosen to reprimand him in the dead of night, when there was less chance of being seen and allowing rumors to get around to the crew. But instead of another one-on-one ass chewing, he arrived to find President Roslin, Doctor Cottle, Colonel Tigh, and Doctor Baltar all in attendance. _The president and vice-president, the commander and his XO, the one medical doctor in the fleet, and me. One of these things is not like the others._

"I got hung up with paperwork," Apollo apologized. The commander only nodded in response, an almost inaudible grunt signaling that he was done with the ship's C.A.G.

"We're all here, doctor," the president told Cottle.

"Great," the doctor answered, nervously tapping his pen against the tabletop. "For those of you who don't know – and that would just be the vice-president and Captain Adama, unless I'm mistaken – we're facing a fleet-wide health crisis."

"What?" Apollo asked.

"The Trojan Flu," Cottle answered.

"The Trojan _Plague_?" Baltar interjected, his eyes going wide.

"It's just the flu, doctor," Cottle assured him.

"Keep a straight face just like that, and maybe some of the people out there will believe you when you tell them," Baltar replied. "Refer to it as the flu, if you'd like, but it is what it is, and the last time it surfaced, millions died."

"That won't happen this time," Roslin said.

"Of course not," Baltar responded. "We're a few people short of millions of possible fatalities, aren't we?"

"Doctor, please," Adama said, his soft voice immediately cutting off all discussion and injecting a surreal calm over the room. Then, turning to Cottle, he asked, "How bad is it?"

"It looks like forty-seven confirmed cases on six ships spread throughout the fleet," Cottle explained. "There're also ninety-four suspected cases that haven't been confirmed yet, not only on the same six ships, but also on seven others. As you know, there's only one on Galactica."

"It's on the Galactica?" Apollo asked.

"Hyper," Tigh answered. "He was over on Cloud Nine when the outbreak started."

"So that's why he's in quarantine."

"And it looks like all of our vaccines have protected the Galactica's crew so far," the commander explained.

"Excuse me?" Baltar asked.

"Colonial military personnel undergo an exhaustive battery of vaccines once per year," Tigh explained. "We travel from one planet to another, with citizens of every colony and outpost going back and forth between ships. We encounter derelict ships from time to time, and we've even done the occasional exploration of new, potential colonies. There're incalculable opportunities for disease, so we take prevention very seriously. The soldiers should be secure."

"Though I've pretty much quarantined Galactica's crew from the rest of the fleet, just to make sure," the commander added. "That's why you're here," he told Apollo. "Your pilots are not to dock with any other ships without my express authorization, and while on _Galactica_ they're to remain quarantined from the rest of the crew. The Vipers are our only real offensive force, and the only layer of protection we have beyond Galactica's guns. Your people get sick, and we're in big trouble." Apollo nodded, marveling that the man who was integrally involved in his most embarrassing childhood memory – breaking his arm trying to teach Zak how to swan dive from the roof into the pool – was now commanding the attention and respect of a roomful of people that included the president of the Colonies. He doubted he would ever find such situations anything less than surreal.

"And what about the civilians?" Baltar asked evenly, suddenly demonstrating the detached, logical intellect that he had been known for even before the war.

"We don't have enough vaccine for everyone," Cottle answered. "And our medical supplies are limited. All I have is on _Galactica_, and this ship was never intended to support a civilian fleet of this size."

"Or any size," Tigh added. Apollo noted the irritated glance the president directed toward the colonel, though Tigh seemed pointedly oblivious.

"There's almost certainly going to be a panic among the people," the president said.

"We're going to need some sort of civilian police force," the commander replied. "We've discussed this before."

"I know," the president admitted, "but we're just finishing our census. It's too soon."

"I can't enforce the peace with marines," the commander replied. "Even if I had enough of them, they're not trained for civilian crowd control. And even if they were, using them would require a declaration of martial law."

"And we're not doing that again," the president said, again glancing at the colonel, who seemed just as pointedly oblivious as he had the last time.

"So Doctor, am I to take it that the most effective course of action at this time is just to quarantine every ship in the fleet and let the flu run its course?" Adama asked Cottle.

"I would say so, yes," Cottle agreed. "There's no indication that it's gotten to every ship, and the flu is far from 100 fatal. About two-thirds of those exposed to the virus will become infected, but only half of the infected people will die."

"The oldest and youngest," Baltar surmised.

"No," Cottle corrected with a shrug. "Most strains of the flu are that way, but the Trojan Flu – and any of the related strains in this particular family, for that matter – will kill indiscriminately. Youth and vitality have little to do with survival; it's basically a crapshoot. Though I think we all have to keep something important in mind – due to food rationing and some dietary deficiencies, it's safe to say that no one in the fleet is as healthy as they could be. That might increase the rate of infection or death."

"Or both," Baltar added.

"Shut down all traffic as soon as we're done here," Adama told Tigh.

"There'll be questions, panic, eventually water shortages and famine," the president commented. "You know how bad things got after a temporary water shortage; imagine how bad it will be now."

"I'd rather not," Adama replied. "But I guess it doesn't matter what I'd rather do. Apollo, I'm going to need you to figure out a way to get extra pilots in the air."

"I'm not going to be able to sustain extra patrols for very long; this'll have to get resolved relatively quickly."

"No promises," the commander told him.

"If this helps at all, it will likely be close to two weeks before we reach the high water mark for infection," Cottle said.

"That's not very long," Roslin responded.

"That's actually a while," Cottle assured her. "Given the fact that we're working in closed environments, with everyone sharing the same air and water… it could end up spreading faster. Probably not too much faster, but it _could_ be worse."

"We need some form of treatment," Roslin said, something in her voice pleading for an answer that her mind seemed to know just wasn't there.

"I'll see if I can come up with anything," Cottle said.

"We're done," Adama announced, rising from his chair and moving toward the exit before anyone could object, Tigh firmly in tow behind him.

"I don't suppose you've had any training in medicine," Cottle asked Baltar.

"No, not so much," he shrugged. "I guess I'm pretty much useless in this particular situation," he said. Apollo caught Baltar glance toward the corner, and his own gaze followed the doctor's eyes, but he saw nothing that should have attracted Baltar's attention. "I suppose I'll go cloister myself back in my lab, then," Baltar added, suddenly seeming very interested in getting out of the room.

"After you come by sick bay," Cottle told him. "You're the vice-president and our best scientist… you need as many vaccines as I can come up with for you."

"Dr. Pin Cushion, that has a nice ring to it," Baltar muttered, waiting for Cottle to leave and falling in step behind him, leaving Apollo alone with the president.

"Madame President," Apollo said with a nod, standing to leave.

"Captain," Roslin said, her authority holding him in the room until she decided she was done with him.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Keep an eye on the commander, will you?"

"Ma'am?" Apollo had always respected the president, but if she thought he was about to spy on his father – no matter how great a rift they were known to have had for a great deal of their lives – she obviously had a great deal left to learn about him.

"He's still recovering from what that cylon did to him," Roslin explained, "and now he has to face a situation that has no military solution, but may eventually require military intervention. Sooner or later, we may need his marines to help restore order. I need to know he understands that and will be ready to do what's required."

"I'll do what I can," Apollo said, immediately turning and leaving. _What the hell have we all come to?_ he wondered. _On the one hand, we have my father seeming to refuse to consider using the military to help keep order, and on the other we have the president appearing absolutely certain that martial law is an inevitability. Funny how different things are after the end of the world._

-------------------------------------------------

"I need you to check something for me," Zarek said as soon as he walked into Ellen's cabin on _Cloud Nine_.

"Does this have anything to do with whatever it is you heard Adama and Roslin are up to?"

"Yes," Zarek replied. At first glance, when she had just opened the door, Ellen had thought Zarek was tired; once he had walked in and started pouring himself a drink, she saw that the drawn, strained look on his face was not fatigue. _It's rage,_ she realized, remembering seeing that look only a few times before in her life. _Pure, feral rage, and he's doing everything he can to hold it in and seem unconcerned._ Every passing second only convinced Ellen more than she had never seen anyone as angry as Tom Zarek was.

"What can I do?" she asked.

"I need you back on _Galactica_."

"Flights have been shut down," she objected immediately.

"I'll take care of it," he assured her, struggling to spread his lips into an unconcerned smile that never came close to reaching his smoldering eyes.

"Okay." Ellen walked to her closet and started to pull clothes off of the hangers, spreading them out on the bed while Zarek threw back his drink and poured another. "Are you going to tell me what this is about?" she asked.

"I've just gotten evidence to support the rumor I heard earlier," Zarek said. "There's been an outbreak of the Trojan Plague, and Adama and Roslin are covering it up."

"They wouldn't," Ellen objected. _But if they were, a lot of things would suddenly make a whole lot more sense. Like why civilian traffic has been all but shut down, leaving some of the transports dangerously low on supplies._

"They would," Zarek assured her. "And they have."

"Why would they do that?"

"You even have to ask? Don't you remember what happened when the plague broke out 25 years ago?"

"A lot of people died," Ellen answered.

"Spoken like a true Caprican," Zarek replied with a condescending smile. "The plague started on the mining settlement of Troy, supposedly when a dormant virus was dug out of the ground. From there it made a quick jump to Aerelon, where it was just starting to get serious when the government got it under control. Suspiciously, after Aerelon, the government wasn't as quick to act on the one other Colony where there was a pandemic."

"Sagitarron."

"Yes, Sagitarron," he spat. "The government made sure that there was a chance for millions to die before it got around to helping us."

"There were other outbreaks, in all of the Colonies," Ellen argued.

"But it was controlled in every case. Troy and Sagitarron were devastated, and Aerelon had it bad for a little while, but all the rest escaped relatively unscathed."

"_Relatively_ being the key word," Ellen shot back. "Over ten thousand died on Caprica."

"Over 33 _million_ died on Sagitarron, all within the span of six months," Zarek shouted, giving voice to a sliver of the rage that had been burning within him. "Do you have any idea what that did to us? We never recovered."

"And what, you think Adama and Roslin secretly released the strain to wipe out the surviving Sagitarrons?" Ellen asked sarcastically. Zarek's only response was a backhand that sent her crashing over the bed. Light and pain flashed before her eyes, immediately followed by dark spots that obscured her vision and started to spread, threatening to usher her into unconsciousness. Ellen struggled back to her feet and stared Zarek down, ignoring the fact that she could hardly see him through her pain. "You ever hit me again, and you'll get to deal with my husband," she threatened.

Tom Zarek laughed. "If you think that's supposed to frighten me, Ellen--"

"My husband is a veteran of the first cylon war," she interrupted. "He's seen soldiers butchered before his very eyes as he fought for his own life; he's stood on a bridge and waited to see if a nuke would vaporize him or whether the armored hull would stand up to the attack. He's torn cylons apart with his bare hands, and he's killed countless men in his career. And if you don't think he'd be willing to kill for me – whether out of affection or simply because he took offense at you presuming to place your hands on me – or if you think there's anything you could ever say or do to intimidate him, you're out of your mind."

Zarek stood silently for several moments, and Ellen knew that he was reassessing her in his mind. Then he smiled, and she knew she had just passed some sort of test. "You're good," he told her. "If I didn't already know Colonel Tigh, I might have actually taken off with my tail tucked firmly between my legs."

"You'd also do well to remember that Saul isn't the only man willing to get rough to defend me," Ellen responded.

"Duly noted."

"So what do you need?" Ellen asked, now content that she would continue to be seen as an accomplice, several steps above the position of sycophant held by many of Zarek's allies.

"I need some kind of clear evidence indicating that Adama and Roslin know," Zarek explained. "I already have proof of the plague, there'll be no denying it exists. But I need to bring them both down when I make my move. Both at the same time… I won't repeat the mistake of moving against one of them individually."

"I'll need a little time, Tom."

"I don't know how much I can give you. I have to make my move soon, before the information leaks on its own, before they have to announce the presence of the plague and make it seem like they're so concerned."

"I'll do what I can."

-------------------------------------------------

"I'm sure that by now you've all heard the rumors," Apollo said, opening his daily briefing. Everyone, including Starbuck, just looked at him as if they had no idea what he was talking about. "Come on," he said, allowing an amused smile, "this ship is worse than high school. Rumors have a life of their own on _Galactica_."

"I think you need to narrow it down for us, sir," Starbuck suggested. "Like you said – this place is worse than a high school. We hear rumors all the time. You mean the one about Hot Dog and Cally?"

"What?" Hot Dog asked from the other side of the room.

"The subject of the rumor is always the last to know," Starbuck shrugged, eliciting a laugh from everyone but Apollo.

"Lieutenant, that'll be all," he said sternly. The grin melted off of Starbuck's face, and Apollo glanced down at his prepared notes. "Oh. frak it," he muttered, crumpling up the paper and tossing it toward the trash can, missing wide right. He made a point to ignore Starbuck's poorly concealed snicker. "I'm no good at public speaking or sugar-coating, so here's the thing – we have an outbreak of the Trojan Flu."

"Is it true that Hyper has it?" Kat asked.

"Yes." Apollo was surprised at how unconcerned his pilots appeared. _Then again, they've been fighting a war against the cylons pretty much 24/7 for months, now. I guess it's not all that shocking that they're unimpressed by the threat of an outbreak of the flu._

"So what's the plan?" Starbuck asked. "We can't launch the alert fighters and shoot the flu to hell. Sir."

"No," Apollo admitted, helpless against the smile that he knew Starbuck had been hoping for. "For us, the plan is simple – we keep flying our patrols, we keep picking off scouting raiders, and we stay completely quarantined from the rest of the crew until the threat of infection has passed."

"Any idea when that might be?" Helo asked, clearly unhappy about the idea of not being able to go near Sharon. "It's not like we can just let everyone off the ships at the next colony so that we can decontaminate all the ships."

"No, it isn't," Apollo admitted. He had known that this part would be the toughest. "This is going to be the procedure into the foreseeable future."

"Then I quit," Helo said.

"You don't get to quit," Apollo told him.

"Watch me."

"Sit down, Helo," Starbuck said. Helo turned on her, clearly spoiling for a fight. She only sighed with disappointment. "You can't go near Sharon even if you weren't quarantined," she told him. "She's pregnant. She's probably quarantined, too. Right, Apollo?"

"Yeah. That's right." Apollo did not see any reason to expound on the additional reasons why their cylon prisoner had been the subject of a medical quarantine.

"So get your head out of your ass and do your job," Starbuck said, surprising Apollo with her ability to get Helo back in his seat. He was clearly still angry, but he was sitting. That was something.

"The corridors between the flight decks and the pilots' quarters are being sealed off," Apollo continued quickly, making certain no one else had an opportunity to object. "No talking to Tyrol's crew on the deck, no mixing with anyone else between the deck and the bunks. That clear?" No one objected, so he continued. "There will also be no docking with any of the other ships in the fleet without the commander's authorization, and we're going to enforce a strict policy of emergency civilian traffic only."

"Are we going to be expected to fire on civilian shuttles?" Hot Dog asked.

"I can't answer that," Apollo replied. "We'll have to look at each situation as it arises. Is that clear?" No one added anything else, so he guessed it was. "Dismissed."

Apollo was not surprised when Starbuck held back, but he had not expected Ares to join her. "Something to add?" he asked Ares, afraid of the answer, and even more afraid of any input Starbuck might decide to offer.

"Maybe. I don't know what the command staff is planning, or what resources you have available, but I think I might be able to offer a solution of sorts if the fleet's medical staff is running short of ideas."

_To be continued…………………………_


	7. The Wisdom of the Mob

Ron Moore reimagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way meant to challenge any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**VII – The Wisdom of the Mob**

"I have to admit I'm a little surprised you're willing to talk at all anymore today, let alone with me," Tabitha Donner said with a friendly smile as she picked up her teacup, cradling it in her hands as the president settled in for their interview.

"The worst of it is over," Roslin replied, wearily leaning back in her chair. "I think that may very well have been the most brutal press conference in the history of mankind. In retrospect, talking about how the cylons can look human was a cakewalk."

"What was the worst part?" Donner asked, placing her cup on the table next to her and turning on her tape recorder. "Was the worst part having to go out there and tell people that we're facing an epidemic that could be the end of us?"

"No," Roslin said immediately, surprised at Donner's choice of words. _She almost sounds like an alarmist._ She remembered to speak more carefully – Tabitha Donner was an autobiographer, not a political ally. There was no telling what the novelist might come up with in her story of humanity's flight and Roslin's leadership through the crisis; the president had enough political experience to know that how facts are presented is far more important than the facts themselves. "Not that explaining the latest emergency was easy," she added. "The people have had enough lately. We've all had enough pain and loss to last two lifetimes; this piling on of crises is… I don't even have a word," she concluded with an exhausted shrug. "Unprecedented seems like an obvious choice, but it doesn't even begin to describe what we've faced, and to be honest, I'm tired of always being the bearer of bad news. I could even see it in the eyes of the reporters – I told them about the flu, and I could tell that most of them just wanted to throw up their hands and scream out, 'Not again!' Facing that kind of increasing hopelessness was the worst part."

"You did well, all things considered."

"And I would have done better if I'd thought things through beforehand and prepared myself for what should have been obvious."

"Which is?"

"They already knew," Roslin answered. "Some of them, anyway," she amended, remembering the suspicious glint in the eyes of those who had not seemed completely stunned by the fact that they had yet another crisis to deal with.

"You think so?"

"Yes, I do." Roslin began rubbing her temples, wondering at how tired she suddenly felt. _Is it because of the hellish day I just had, or is it because I'm that much closer to dying?_ she wondered. She could not remember ever feeling so weary, despite some of the crises she had faced in her early days in politics; but at the same time, the fatigue had never been quite this bad. She decided that given the alternative, she would choose to believe that it was the press that wore her out so.

"How could they have found out?"

"Tom Zarek," Roslin said at once, not a hint of doubt in her voice. As soon as she said the name, she cursed herself. _I was just reminding myself to be more careful, and then I go and throw his name out there as if it's Billy I'm talking to._ "Maybe we should continue this tomorrow," she said, her tone conveying a disappointment that she did not even begin to feel.

"I understand." Donner clicked off her recorder and put it in her bag. "You still have to be very careful around me," she added. "You know I want to include everything you say, to record it for later, but you also can't have me going out there and spreading stories about how you see Tom Zarek as the enemy lurking in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to bring you down. It might make you look paranoid. At the very least, it would alienate a lot of the people who consider him a friend, or at least a political ally."

"You _do_ understand," Roslin said. "Maybe you should sit back down."

"Yes ma'am," Donner said with an ingratiating smile that hinted at guile Roslin had never seen in the writer before. "I'm no politician, but that doesn't mean I'm an idiot."

"Perhaps we should set some careful ground rules," the president suggested. "I can't tiptoe around you, afraid of what you're going to include in your book. But I also can't hold much back, or I'd be doing a disservice to you and to everyone who eventually reads your book, thinking that it's a comprehensive account of what happened."

"Can I speak freely?" Donner asked. Roslin nodded. "You see, Madame President, I've been considering this very problem. It seems to me that the best thing we can do is to mutually agree that no one will see my work until you're dead."

"That _is_ the obvious solution," Roslin agreed, hating the sound of the words even more than the mental image they conjured in her head. _Until I'm dead,_ she thought, feeling a stifling combination of fear, anger, and frustration. Rather than getting better with time, the idea of her impending death only grew worse with each passing day.

"I know you still might not like sharing some of your thoughts and feelings, but at least that way you get the assurance of knowing that history will judge you as it will, and you won't have to put up with the ignorant bastards if they decide you were lacking." She laughed slightly, and Roslin could not help but join her.

"Fine," she said. "I know there's nothing I can do to hold you at your word, and there's certainly nothing I can do to punish you if you decide to change your mind."

"I won't change my mind."

"And neither will I," Roslin said, taking a deep breath, mentally steeling herself to open up and let her thoughts, feelings, and opinions out for all to see. _Well, for all to see once I'm not around to hear what everyone thinks about my opinions._ "I think Tom Zarek was behind me getting ambushed at that press conference."

"So you believe he knew about the flu before you released the news?"

"No doubt about it," Roslin said. "He has people all around the fleet, looking for the slightest problem, anything he can use to discredit me and bring me down. He won't be happy until he has power."

"He says he has a better way of doing things," Donner commented.

"So did President Adar when he okayed deployment of the Command Navigational Program project that his predecessor had developed," Roslin said, feeling dirty as she condemned the decision of the man she had long seen as her mentor. "Adar was wrong, and it cost us all dearly. Zarek is just as wrong, and he doesn't have the intelligence and humility to admit – or even accept – that."

"And Adar would?"

"If Adar were here, he would have accepted full responsibility for the consequences of his decisions," Roislin said confidently. "Zarek is not that kind of man. Twenty years in prison did nothing for him – he still blames the government for all of his problems, even when that government is a pale imitation of the bureaucracy that screwed his people. He killed civilians to make his point, and he doesn't seem to have the vaguest notion that what he did is wrong."

"So you believe he wants to punish the people, all the non-Sagitarrons he blames for the suffering of his colony?"

"I don't think even Tom Zarek knows what he really wants," Roslin muttered. "He wants power, he wants to be the president. Lacking that, he probably wants control of the _Galactica_, to be the military head of the fleet. Even with all the years he had to think it over, I doubt he's given an hour's worth of honest contemplation as to what he would actually do with the power he wants so badly. I've seen his kind before, and they always hurt people. They hurt people on their way to the top; and once they're there, they hurt people because it's become habit, because they never learned to help people, as is the responsibility of people in government."

"You truly believe that?"

"I do," Roslin said. "But then again, maybe it's easier for me. I was only the Secretary of Education. My decisions helped children all across the Colonies, and I was rarely put in a position where anything I did could ever really hurt anyone. Refusing to include your novel in the Colonial Curriculum was probably the cruelest thing I was ever forced to do."

"In the whole scheme of things, I guess that's not a big deal," Donner commented. Roslin smiled and paused to take a sip of tea, marveling at how much she had divulged in only a few moments. It was liberating, but strangely frightening.

"But remember," Donner commented, interrupting Roslin's thoughts, "I've gained perspective from an apocalyptic assault by sentient, warlike machines. At the time you had me thrown out of your office, I felt like my world was collapsing around me."

"Funny how things like that don't seem to matter anymore," Roslin agreed. "We may have lost almost everything we've ever valued, but in return we had the chance to realize that maybe we were valuing all the wrong things."

-------------------------------------------------

"I miss cornbread," Marcus said, tossing a piece of barely re-hydrated flatbread back on his tray. "This sucks."

"Better than starving," Tyrol replied, ignoring Marcus' latest complaint. The young man had only been in the service for a little over a year and had never expected any action. Like many others, he'd only wanted to have his college education paid for; he had never even dreamed of anything like their current situation.

"Sometimes I wonder whether starvation is the better fate," Cally joked, throwing a piece of her own flatbread at Marcus, bouncing it off his forehead. "_Galactica_ was well known as having one of the worst mess halls in the fleet, and now there's no chance of ever making it better."

"Better than starving," Tyrol repeated.

"I miss wine, too," Marcus added. "Good, strong red wine. The kind they made on Tauron."

"That's enough," Tyrol grumbled.

"Yeah, it's not like you'll ever see a good bottle of Tauron red ever again," Cally said. "Or Caprican sparkling wine, either, for that matter."

"Seriously, Cally… stow it," Tyrol said. "It's not gonna do any of us any good thinking about what we left behind. We all have a job to do."

"Yeah, forget it all and focus on the work," Harper said from across the table. "Wake up, eat, work, sleep. Same thing, every day of the week. Or maybe I should say it's more like activate, work, recharge. We're becoming more like machines every day, just like the toasters, and it's never going to change."

"Except toasters don't get sick," Marcus pointed out. "Now that the Trojan Plague is spreading through the fleet, we get something new and different."

"Not exactly what I had in mind," Cally put in, dropping her fork on the tray. "Maybe we should do something about it."

"About the plague?" Marcus asked with a chuckle. "You gonna quit the flight deck to become a doctor?"

"It's the _Trojan_ Plague," Cally pointed out. "As in, it came from Troy. Anyone here happen to know anyone from Troy?" No one answered, but Tyrol's stomach sank. "Don't know about you guys, but _I_ happen to know someone from Troy. Well, some_thing_ that claims it's from Troy."

"Valerii," Marcus said. "Oh frak, I can't believe I didn't remember."

"Me either," Harper said. "So what are we gonna do about it?"

"You're gonna shut the frak up, that's what," Tyrol growled, staring down each of the three deckhands in turn. "Then you're gonna get your asses back on the flight deck."

"Not on duty right now," Marcus shrugged.

"That just changed," Tyrol replied. "I expect you all down there in fifteen."

"Chief, come on," Cally complained. "I only have two hours, and then I have to work a double."

"And we're not getting paid overtime anymore, Chief," Harper added.

"Sitting around here talking crazy isn't going to change anything," Tyrol said. "So if you don't have anything constructive to do, you may as well get back to work." Cally was staring at him, launching mental daggers, and he was certain he knew what she was thinking. _She's thinking about me and Sharon. She thinks I'm trying to protect her. She thinks I'm blind to what's going on._

"Fine," Marcus hissed, grabbing his tray with one hand and storming off. Tyrol was certain he also heard Marcus add some colorful language as he got out of earshot, but the chief ignored it. _I have more important things to do. I'll check on Sharon, and then I'll make sure those grease monkeys are so tired at the end of the day that they won't have enough energy to speak._

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"I was wondering when you'd show up," Baltar muttered, looking up from his microscope and seeing that Six had joined him.

"Missing me again?"

"Simply anticipating your predictable jovial mood." Countless hours spent writing new computer programs to help Cottle with his research – in addition to his own responsibilities as vice-president and resident genius – had definitely started to take a toll on Baltar's attitude. He hated to think he might be described as cranky, but he was willing to acknowledge that innocent bystanders made subject to his ire might be willing to tag him with that label.

"My jovial mood?" Six asked, her wide, obnoxiously toothy smile belying her innocent gaze. "Why what ever do you mean, Gaius?"

"The Trojan Plague," Baltar spat. "I suppose you had something to do with this."

"Are you going to blame me for everything that goes wrong?" Six asked, acting absolutely scandalized at the proposition.

"Perhaps it _is_ a bit unfair of me," Baltar answered sarcastically. "I mean, other than annihilating billions of my people in a surprise attack and nuking our home planets into oblivion, what have you and yours actually done to deserve such suspicion?"

"Your people could have been exposed just as easily by some careless gardener on _Cloud Nine_, digging up a tree that had been planted in soil contaminated with the dormant virus," Six responded, leaning casually against a wall. "As a scientist, you of all people should be careful about drawing conclusions that aren't based on any hard data."

"Perhaps you just bring out the intuition in me, dear."

"Is that all I bring out in you?" Six asked. Baltar glanced over and saw that she was suggestively playing with the top button of her blouse. He was not in the mood for this at all.

"I'm busy, and I'd appreciate it if you left me alone."

"But I have something I want to tell you."

"You've had at least a minute to do so, and yet you stand there and play games, instead," Baltar spat. "I don't think I should have to suffer for your inability to use time efficiently."

"It's about our child," Six said. Baltar hated to admit it, but that was the one thing that would always get him to drop everything and give his uninvited cylon guest his undivided attention. "I have concerns." The smile was gone, and now she looked downright nervous.

"What is it?"

"Our unborn child is on a ship that has a confirmed outbreak of the Trojan Flu," Six answered. "You do the math."

"Our child is in no danger."

"You only say that because you insist on believing that we're the ones who introduced the virus," Six shot back. "You're assuming that we wouldn't put our child at risk, and that's correct. But like I told you already, we didn't release the virus in your fleet."

"Mm-hmm."

"Gaius, I'm serious."

"Frak…" Baltar pushed his seat back from the desk and locked gazes with Six. _If she were human, I would have no problem believing the earnest sincerity in her eyes. But she's not human; if I were the cylons, I would make sure I wrote a behavioral subroutine that would result in that very same expression…_

"Gaius, we have to check on our baby."

"Valerii has been completely segregated from the rest of the crew," Baltar reasoned. "There's no one there to infect her; from what I hear, even the one guard they have watching over her stays outside the door and only goes inside the brig to bring her meals. Other than that, there's no one to get her sick."

"Are you willing to take that chance?"

"Well, I'm not a medical doctor," Baltar barked, his patience now completely exhausted. "If the virus _is_ there, there's no much I can do about it. If Valerii is ill, I'm just going to call Cottle the same as her guard will if he discovers she has the Plague."

"Listen to yourself, Gaius," Six responded. "_If she has the Plague_! You don't think that's important enough to take ten minutes out of your day? This is our _child_ we're talking about."

"No, you're right, of course," Baltar answered. _When she puts it like that… Just what the hell is my problem, anyway? Of course I should check on our child._

"Thank you, Gaius. I'll make it up to you later," Six promised as he walked out the door.

-------------------------------------------------

"Got a few minutes?" Apollo asked, poking his head into the commander's quarters.

"Sure," William Adama answered, putting aside a book he had been reading. Apollo had not seen his father take a book down from his shelf for some recreational reading since the cylon attack; the sight was so strange that he did everything he could to catch a glimpse of the title, all with no luck.

"One of my pilots had an idea," Apollo said.

" 'One of my pilots,' " the commander repeated with a grin. "Is that code for Starbuck?"

"No, this time it's Ares," Apollo admitted. "It's about the flu."

"What is it?"

"He and his crew were out there all by themselves for a while, tracking every signal they detected," Apollo explained.

"That's how they found us," the commander said, nodding slightly. "The alert beacon that went off on the _Astral Queen_ when it failed to reach its destination."

"Right." Apollo had not even known that the beacon existed, and the commander had needed to explain to him that all prisoner transports had a beacon installed in their navigational and communications systems when they were carrying enemies of the state. Zarek had certainly qualified for that distinction. The beacon transmitted on a classified frequency that was notoriously hard to track for non-military vessels. Of course, Ares had explained that, as a bounty hunter, he had found it necessary to invest in equipment that could help him find prisoner transports that might be adrift after an escape.

"But this isn't about the _Astral Queen_, is it?"

"No. While they were out there, they came across the Chiron Medical Station."

"Chiron? It's intact?"

"It was three weeks ago," Apollo answered. "Ares said there are two scientists left, and they weren't interested in hopping aboard a small freighter with no destination. Assuming the cylons haven't found them, they probably still have the place up and running."

"We can't take the fleet back that way," the commander commented, thinking out loud. "We have to keep moving away from the cylons. You say Ares has a plan?"

"Simple enough," Apollo answered. "We use the _Chimera_ and a couple of Raptors, fly on back, pick up supplies, then haul ass back here as fast as we can."

"Simple enough," Adama repeated. "Not much risk for the potential reward."

Apollo nodded – to him, this was a no-brainer. Chiron was a remote, classified medical research facility, situated at the edge of known space, well out of the shipping lanes. One of the so-called Six Sisters, Chiron was an infectious agent research lab. Apollo had no doubt that biological weapons were developed there, but each of the Six Sisters doubled as a medical emergency port, capable of supporting a full military fleet in the midst of a large-scale health crisis. _All while keeping that fleet safely out of the public eye, preventing hysteria and any chance of having commercial traffic stumble upon a new disease they could carry to the civilian population. The Six Sisters were built because of the problems associated with the Trojan Flu; what better place to go now that it's back?_

"Can you trust the information?" Adama asked unexpectedly.

"Huh?"

"You said Ares came to you with this?"

"Yes."

"Then can you trust it?"

"He's not a cylon," Apollo answered. "The tests were very conclusive on that."

"That's not what I asked," Adama replied, his expression having reverted to his stony commander's mask. "When he showed up here, you said that you and he had known each other but had never been great friends," Adama explained. "You didn't seem too thrilled with his arrival, and I've looked at the flight logs enough to know you've been reluctant to use him as much as I would expect, given that he's an experienced pilot and you're about fifty pilots short of what you need to provide minimum preparedness for a fleet this size. Say what you want, but I see your flight assignments – I know you don't fully trust him."

"It's not that," Apollo objected. "I just… I don't know. Maybe I just have trouble seeing that he's changed is all. Sir."

"You don't have to 'Sir' me in here, Lee," Adama said, his expression softening once more, just like it had when he had joked about Starbuck. "And I know that you and Ares were very good friends at flight school."

"Huh?"

"You don't think everyone there who knew me wasn't eager to pass on stories?" Adama asked. "I heard a lot about what happened."

"You never said anything."

"You didn't want me to," Adama pointed out. "I wasn't blind to how you viewed me and my perceived influence on your career. There wasn't much I could do about that, so I tried to ignore it and hoped that you'd do the same."

"So you know what happened."

"I know one of your best friends was killed in a crash," Adama admitted. "A woman named Carrie Starke."

"Athena."

"Yeah, Athena. I heard all about my son, the frosty-cold pilot who was so skilled that he earned the name of a god as his callsign. You're the kind of pilot they say only comes around once every four or five years, and in your class, they had three of you."

"I should get going," Lee said, making to stand up when his father raised his hand.

"I'm sorry," Adama muttered. "I didn't mean to chase you out of here by bringing up the past. It's just… No, I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Lee responded, easing back into his chair. "I never talked about it. Never wanted to, and I didn't realize you knew about it. Though I guess I should have expected you to. Yeah, Ares, Athena, and I were pretty tight. And we were also young and stupid. We all took to a Viper like a duck to water, and we spent far too much time egging each other on to push harder when we should have been paying more attention to the limits of the aircraft."

"And yourselves."

"And ourselves," Lee agreed. "Athena got it in her head that she should try flying Demeter's Canyon at Mach 1."

"In a Viper?"

"It wouldn't have been a challenge in planetside fighter," Apollo answered. "The Viper is built to operate in space, high-, and low-atmosphere. Multi-purpose to the extreme, but lacking some of the features that make planetside fighters far more maneuverable in low atmosphere flight. She should have known better… it was perfectly frakking clear in hindsight."

"Mistakes usually are."

"It was Ares' idea," Apollo continued. "He was going to fly the canyon and prove he was the best of us… we were always trying to one-up each other. But he got caught off base – with Admiral Benjamin's daughter – and got himself grounded. So Athena took the opportunity to do it first. I didn't even try to stop her."

"Didn't you realize how dangerous it was?"

"Of course I did," Apollo replied. "That was the whole point. I don't think it ever occurred to me that she couldn't do it. She was the best of the three of us, no doubt about it. Starbuck is the only pilot I've ever seen who might be better. I never tried to stop her."

"And neither did Ares."

"He tried a little," Apollo said, "but only because he wanted Athena to delay until he could do it first. It wasn't like she didn't realize what he was up to. So she went out one morning and didn't come back. Ares and I didn't talk much after that. I can't even say why… we just didn't."

"And that's why you're being careful with Ares."

"I'm not going to be careless again," Apollo said. "And I won't give Ares an opportunity to, either, whether he wants to or not."

"So you trust his information, but not necessarily his judgment."

"I guess so," Apollo admitted.

"Then make certain he doesn't have an opportunity to make command decisions," Adama instructed. "Pick your crews. The _Chimera_ and two Raptors. You'll be flying one of the Raptors."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll inform the president that the military may have a solution to her problem."

"A sensible military solution to a health crisis; that'll amuse her."

"I'm sure it will."

-------------------------------------------------

By the time he reached the brig where Sharon Valerii was being held, Baltar was already able to make out many of the specific threats that were being made and connect a few of the voices to faces and names he knew.

"You really just better go, Chief," Cally called out, her voice clearly indicating that she was at the end of her rope. "You weren't supposed to be here."

"I'm not going anywhere," Tyrol growled, his confrontational tone apparently the only thing keeping a mob of his crewmates at bay. Baltar turned the final corner and took in the scene before him. His guess had been correct – there were at least a dozen people standing there, and none of them looked like they were making a social call. The only one standing against them was Chief Tyrol, and any influence and authority he had over his shipmates was rapidly fading.

"You can't stop us all, chief," a young man called out.

"I know," Tyrol admitted. "But I can guarantee that I'll kill the first one of you with my bare hands. Maybe the second one, too. The third might take me down, but you all have to ask yourselves whether you're willing to be the first or second one to try getting past me. Is getting past me important enough to die for?"

"She brought the plague with her," a woman cried out from the back of the crowd, just several feet in front of Baltar.

"You can't believe that," Tyrol answered. "There's no evidence of that. You're just panicking."

"Frak you, chief," another woman spat. "We're not panicking, we're being smart! If anyone's panicking, it's you. You _have_ to know your girlfriend is responsible."

"She's from Troy," another crewman shouted. "And the Trojan Plague didn't break out until after she got here."

"Space her!" another voice shouted. "Space her before she can spread the plague!"

"Quiet!" Baltar shouted. He almost fell over in shock when everyone did an about-face toward him all at once, with the precision of graduating cadets. "You all have to get out of here immediately."

Several moments of silence followed as the assembled crewmen were clearly considering their options, weighing the consequences of defying the vice-president against their desire to kill a cylon. Baltar thought he might have gotten through to them, only to have his hopes shattered when someone yelled, "No, space her!"

"Space her!" Cally echoed, and the crowd turned as one back toward Tyrol, who suddenly looked extremely vulnerable in front of the door to Valerii's cell.

"Are you all mad?" Baltar shrieked, trying a tactic that occurred to him suddenly and seemed so insane that it could not help but work. "This is what it might want!" That got through to them once again, and the screams ebbed to furious murmurs.

"What are you talking about?" Tyrol yelled from the front. "She hasn't done anything."

"How do we know?" Baltar asked him. "What they're all saying makes a kind of sense."

"Yeah," someone echoed. "It makes sense, Chief."

"But we can't just pull her out of there," Baltar added, turning once more to the crewmen. He had felt them take him into their little mob, he knew they had accepted his first statement and began to use his voice of authority as justification for their actions. Now he had to redirect their paranoia and rage, slowly and extremely carefully. _Here goes the most dangerous part._ "What if pulling her out of there is the whole idea?" he asked Tyrol, making certain he did not engage the crowd until he was certain they were ready to listen to reason.

"She's not infected," Tyrol stated flatly.

"You don't know that," Baltar argued. "Like your own shipmates said, you might think of her as your girlfriend. Your mind might be clouded by your feelings."

"No."

"She could be in there hoping we pull her out, hoping that everyone who helps space her gets infected and spreads the plague around _Galactica_," Baltar pointed out. He saw a slight glimmer in Tyrol's eyes, and he realized the chief had just caught on to what he was planning. Baltar spared a moment to take in the mood of those around him. Everyone seemed suddenly absorbed with the test of wills between the chief and the vice-president.

"She wouldn't come in here just to get us sick," Tyrol replied. "She wouldn't do that. You can even test her if you want."

"And if she's infected?" Baltar asked. "If we can prove she brought the plague here to kill us all?"

"Then we'll space her," Tyrol said through gritted teeth, reluctant to speak the words but possessing enough common sense to play along with Baltar's plan.

"Do we have your guarantee you won't try to stop us next time?" Baltar asked.

"Yes."

"Cally," Baltar said, turning to the woman who had seemed surprisingly comfortable at the front of a mob. "I need you to go to the bridge and tell the commander that I need full access to the prisoner. I need to run some tests, do you understand? And tell him to get some more guards down here; we can't risk her trying to escape and infect us all in case we've caught on to her plan."

"Sure," Cally responded, pushing her way toward the back of the small group and heading toward the bridge.

"And the rest of you better clear out of here and get to sick bay," Baltar advised. "Those air holes in the brig aren't there for show – you might have just exposed yourselves to the plague." Most of the crewmen seemed aghast at the idea and raced out, though three young men stayed behind.

"You'd better leave," Baltar advised.

"We're not going anywhere," one of them said.

"Not until we know if we're spacing her," another added.

"Granted, I haven't been on _Galactica_ for all that long," Baltar said, "but I've definitely noticed that news seems to race amongst the crew faster than seems rationally possible. How long do you think it is before – what's his name, Helo?" he asked Tyrol. The chief nodded. "Yes, Helo… How long do you think it'll be before Helo comes down here to make certain you all leave?" Baltar asked. "Of course, perhaps Colonel Tigh will get down here first and accuse you of slacking; I hear he isn't very forgiving of crewmen who shirk their duties. Then again, if the commander is the first one down here and thinks you've been threatening to space his valuable hostage..." Baltar was not sure which man's arrival concerned the three crewmen the most, and he didn't much care. All that mattered to him was that all three left without another word.

"Thanks," Tyrol said, leaning back against the door. Now that the crowd had left, Baltar could see Valerii curled up in the back corner of her cell.

"Don't mention it," Baltar answered, turning and walking back to his lab. He had not gone more than twenty feet before four armed marines passed him going toward the brig. _A little late,_ Baltar thought, wondering where the scheduled guard had gone when the mob arrived.

"That was magnificent," Six commented from behind Baltar. The doctor did not even break stride; he simply glanced back and grunted. "I truly don't think you could have managed that before your time on Kobol," the cylon added. "You've definitely grown, Gaius. You're not the same small genius you used to be."

"Mm-hmm." He refused to give her the satisfaction of an answer this time. _She manipulated me into going up there,_ he fumed. _She knew what was going to happen… somehow, she knew… and she sent me up there to stand up to a mob._ "I could have been killed," he muttered.

"Our child could have been killed," Six countered. "But you saved her. You just stood up to a dozen soldiers who were planning on murdering our child. How does that make you feel, Gaius?"

Baltar knew that she wanted him to saying something along the lines of, 'It made me feel like I was unstoppable, like I had been touched by god,' or at least, 'It made me feel powerful.' He decided to disappoint her. "It made me feel like I could really use a drink."

_To be continued…………………………_


	8. Religion and Philosophy

Ron Moore reimagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way meant to challenge any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**VIII – Religion and Philosophy**

"Good morning, Sibyl," a little girl called out as she ran past Doreah's quarters aboard the _Aeolus_. It was still very early, only minutes after the sleep period had officially ended on the ship. Soon the others would be opening the doors to their own quarters as they began their days, and Doreah hoped that she would have all of her laundry – now hanging on a line in her doorway – taken down and folded neatly away before anyone saw her. _The aura of a Sibyl would doubtless be diminished if my neighbors saw my smallclothes hanging out to dry._

Not for the first time, Doreah found herself longing for her old home at the Oracle of Lydia. She had spent years studying the Sacred Scrolls, honing her own talent for prophecy. Only months from taking her final vows and officially becoming a Sibyl, all of her dreams – along with the temple and surrounding neighborhood – had come crashing down around her.

The worst of it had been the second week after her flight from Geminon. She had felt the stares of the people; they all saw her intricately braided hair, and they knew what it meant. At first, they had all taken comfort in her words, her assurances. Stories had spread that she was a Sibyl, and the most devout had come to her for blessings. Not soon after, when the initial shock had begun to wear off and logic returned to people's minds, the obvious question arose – what kind of prophetess does not foresee the end of the world.

Many had railed against such accusations, but Doreah had often felt that even her greatest supporters sometimes questioned her gifts. _Even worse, they've sometimes questioned their own faith,_ she admitted to herself.

Her work was done and she was just about to walk into her quarters when she heard two muffled voices coming from down the hall, where the young girl had run. Hoping to make certain that the girl was all right, Doreah walked slowly down the hall, arriving at a turn that prevented her from seeing who was talking, though she could make out the words clearly now that she was closer.

"I don't buy it," a deep, rumbling male voice said. He was trying to whisper, but his voice did not lend itself well to the attempt.

"How can you deny it?" another man asked. He sounded young, his voice not even fully changed yet, and Doreah smiled when she realized that the young man was trying to deepen his own voice and whisper at the same time, resulting in a vibrato tone that almost made her laugh.

"This is Tom Zarek you're talking about," the older man answered. Doreah was now intently interested in the conversation; she knew the name Tom Zarek, and she had heard that he had done a great deal to improve the conditions on her ship. "He's been a nice guy, but he's still a convicted terrorist. You can't be serious."

"Pythia was pretty clear on this," the young man countered. He had given up his attempts at whispering, though he still kept his voice low. Now Doreah recognized him. _It's Deacon Connor,_ she realized. She knew the young man from one of her prayer groups. He had arrived on the ship only a day before the outbreak of the Trojan Plague, explaining that he was searching for a purpose and had heard that there was a Sibyl on board her ship. Doreah had accepted him into her flock as she had everyone else who had come to her.

"Pythia lived thousands of years ago, and you're a fool if you believe a thing she wrote."

"You say that after all that's already happened?" Deacon asked. "What about the caravan of the heavens and President Roslin's illness? It all fits. And so does the Condemned Man."

"So you say."

"And when the leader of the people succumbs to death, the Condemned Man will rise, and the people will forgive him for having opposed their lost Leader," Deacon said, reciting one of Pythia's passages. "We know Roslin is going to die, and we know that Zarek has opposed her."

"So has Adama," the older man pointed out. "He went and arrested her. And Tigh declared martial law. All Zarek did was run against her candidate in an election for the new vice-president."

"The Condemned Man will achieve atonement," Deacon argued, citing another passage. "I think he did that when he helped Roslin escape the brig and hide from Tigh. She forgave him for opposing her."

"That's stupid."

"Well, I don't see any other former convicts – or condemned men, as Pythia would say – running around opposing the president and then getting forgiveness for what they did," Deacon answered. "Zarek is the one who's going to deliver us to Earth. Pythia said so."

"Your mind's been clouded by hanging around that woman down the hall," the older man said. "She has you hung up on prophecy and religion, when you should be spending your time finding your next meal."

"Whatever," Deacon said. "Someday you'll see, and you'll wish you would have listened to me when you had a chance to show your faith in the gods."

"Uh-huh," the older man grunted.

Doreah realized their conversation was over, that one or both of them might turn the corner and see her eavesdropping. She rushed back the way she had come, as quietly as possible, and was safely in her quarters by the time Deacon walked past her door.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she thought over what she had just heard. _Deacon is only a child, but I think he may be right,_ she decided. She allowed the idea to sit in her mind, and the more she thought about it, the more it felt like the truth. She knew in her heart that Tom Zarek was the Condemned Man, the way she had always felt the truth when it had been delivered to her.

"I have to spread the word," she muttered to her empty quarters. "It's time to stop looking at the suffering of the past and turn instead to the future. I'm a Sybil… maybe the last Sybil. It's time I act the part."

-------------------------------------------------

"I believe you ordered nine Harpy III concussion missiles?" Apollo called up to Ares as he pulled up next to the Chimera with a weapons lift. As usual, Ares was working on his ship, this time poring over a circuit board he had pulled from near the stern. It seemed to Apollo that Ares spent almost as much time on maintenance as he did actually flying.

"Took long enough," Ares complained, though his broad smile belied his attempt at crankiness.

"There are four more that have been reserved for your ship, too," Apollo promised.

"You gonna help me load them?"

"Do I look like a deckhand?"

"Actually, you do," Ares joked. "But then again, maybe I'm delusional. I might be coming down with something."

"That's not funny."

"Neither is forcing me to do every bit of maintenance on my ship," Ares countered.

"You had the opportunity to have a crew assigned to it," Apollo pointed out. "You're the one who turned down my offer."

"They wanted full specs," Ares reminded him.

"And that surprised you? You were never all that bright, but seriously…"

"Hey, it doesn't bother me much, but Drake flipped out when I told him that _Galactica's_ techs would have full access to his upgrades. As if someone's going to steal an idea and make billions of cubits by patenting it before him. As if that's a concern for him…"

"Not everyone has gotten used to the fact that everything is different now," Apollo said. "Believe it or not, it seems like the prospect of impending doom doesn't cheer most people up the way it does you."

"See, I knew you'd end up using that against me," Ares complained, walking up to Apollo and starting to look over the missiles on the rack.

"Not using it against you," Apollo responded, "just pointing out that you seem to have a unique point of view. You can't expect the civilians to be gung-ho about this war. They're caught in the middle – like civilians always are – and if we lose, they all die."

"Then they should get their heads out of their asses and get themselves into the fight," Ares grumbled, focusing on one of the missiles near the bottom of the rack. "This one's got a bad guidance thruster," he said.

"What are you talking about?" Apollo asked.

"The thruster's bad," Ares repeated. "Right here," he said, pointing to the defective part. "I'm not hitting anything out there with this; it'll just go spinning off into space."

"No, I meant what are you talking about with the civilians?"

"They should wake up and smell the coffee," Ares explained. "There's no such thing as civilians anymore – the word should be banned."

"We can't do that."

"Why not?"

"For one thing, that would put all of the authority under the commander," Apollo pointed out. "We can't have that, and he's made it very clear he believes that there should be a civilian commander in chief."

"And the result is that we have to put up with tens of thousands of civilians who are a drain on our resources," Ares argued. "The whole fleet can only move as fast as the slowest civilian transport, which, in case you haven't noticed, isn't very fast."

"We can't leave people behind."

"They eat our food, they drink our water, they breathe our air, all while providing a breeding ground for diseases and giving nothing back to the rest," Ares said. "I heard a group of cylons got aboard the _Galactica_ during one of their raids."

"Yeah."

"And what happens when they decide to use the same strategy against your _civilian_ ships?" Ares asked. "They'd be like lambs to the slaughter, and you know it, Apollo."

"I don't see how putting them all under military authority is going to change that," Apollo countered. "Let's just say for a minute that we declared everyone to be drafted into the military."

"A valid suggestion, given the emergency nature of our current situation. The Articles of Colonization _did_ provide for a military draft, you know."

"But not for 100 military service," Apollo argued. "There has to be a civilian population to support the military. There are plenty of ships out there that pull their own weight by helping to keep the _Galactica_ supplied."

"And once again, what happens if a bunch of cylons gets aboard those ships?"

"Then we'll have to go in and take them out."

"Why not start training people across the fleet?" Ares suggested. "Wouldn't that make more sense? Word has it you're gonna be training police, so why not add some military training, as well? There are too many ships, and too few soldiers. The major concern so far has been about getting pilots, and that's all well and good, but some new marines would be a good idea, too."

"And how, exactly, are you planning on arming all of these new marines?"

"We have several machine shops here on _Galactica_," Ares answered. "Why not refit some of them to make weapons? It's not exactly rocket science, Apollo. We can get most of the raw materials from planets, moons, asteroids, and even comets. Not to mention the fact that every time Starbuck gets back from her latest one-on-ten cylon killfest we have a whole Viper's worth of new scrap metal."

As much as he wanted to continue arguing the idea, Apollo saw some merit in Ares' proposal. _I've considered some of the same things myself a couple of times,_ he reminded himself. _But while crafting new weapons and ammunition is a simple enough goal, universal military service is over the top…_ "I'll mention it to the commander," Apollo promised.

"Good."

"But only if you wipe that satisfied smirk off your face," Apollo threatened. "If I was in the mood to see that, I'd go hang out with Starbuck."

"Well, if you could stand the sexual tension, you would," Ares replied. "You two should seriously just get it over with and sleep with each other."

"You know, sometimes you sound almost intelligent, and then you screw it all up by not knowing when to stop talking."

"It's always been my downfall," Ares shrugged. "But that doesn't mean I'm wrong."

"Have fun loading these missiles on your own," Apollo said, suddenly deciding to get some paperwork done.

"You can' be serious."

"I'm always serious," Apollo assured him. "That's one thing you'll have to learn."

"Wasn't always that way," Ares called out as Apollo reached the exit hatch. "You used to be fun."

_Used to be,_ Apollo thought as he walked down the corridor, for the first time oblivious to the fact that he was alone in the hallway, now cleared of other crewmembers in order to reduce the chance of infection to the pilots. _But that was a long time ago, and everything's different now. It's so different that I'm actually starting to see merit in some of Ares' half-assed ideas._

-------------------------------------------------

Helo kept one eye on the clock as he ran his hand through Sharon's hair. He often felt that he got more out of his visits than she did, even though the notion seemed absurd. She was locked in a cage – _for her protection as much as ours,_ Helo realized more with every passing day – with no one to talk to and well aware that she was surrounded by people who wanted her dead. _All alone, with nothing but fear and a little bit of spunky anger, and I actually have the nerve to find more comfort from her than she can get from me._ It made Helo feel a little guilty.

"I have to go," he whispered in her ear. Her hand clutched his more tightly, and it tore at him that he couldn't stay longer.

"Just a few minutes more," Sharon pleaded.

"That's what you said a few minutes ago," Helo answered, helpless against a thin smile.

"This time I mean it."

"Okay. A few minutes more." Helo relaxed and leaned into Sharon's body, enjoying her warmth, absorbing her smell, listening to the slow, relieved breaths that were the only outward indication that she was still alive. Helo didn't say anything else – he knew he didn't have to. The physical closeness, the comfort and support it provided, meant more than any mere words could provide.

Not for the first time, Helo wondered at his feelings. He had never truly been in love with a woman before, despite what he had believed at so many times when he was younger. The first woman he had fallen for was a friend named Ilene; that had been when he was fifteen, and it was over by the time he was seventeen. During college he had had a few girlfriends, and he had actually planned to marry a woman named Anne before her parents decided they didn't like him around their daughter and she failed to stick up for him. _But not since then,_ he realized. _Nothing that could possibly pass for serious, and now that I'm with Sharon, I finally have some perspective – the relationships I used to think were serious were nothing more than passing infatuations masquerading as true love. This is real, this is true. So much so that it changes not only how I feel now, but I how I feel about everything else I've ever done, everyone else I've ever known._

Helo had been alone for years, never fully realizing or understanding it. Looking back on it all now, he had to admit that he had been in love with Sharon Valerii for as long as he could remember. He had flown with her for so long, living for their time in the Raptor when it was just them, when the chief was out of sight and out of mind. In the Raptor, they clicked. Sharon was the mind and the hands, Helo the eyes and ears. As long as they were flying, it was almost like they were extensions of each other. When the flights ended, they went their separate ways to their separate lives.

Helo doubted he would ever come to terms with the irony that his decision to surrender his seat on his Raptor, giving up all that he had known and loved, was what had finally brought Sharon into his arms. On Caprica, he had fooled himself into believing that Sharon had cared enough to leave the chief and risk certain death to bring him back into her life. _But was I really fooling myself?_ he wondered for the umpteenth time. _She was really there, and she really cared. Maybe it wasn't the same body that had been out here with the chief, but they say that the cylons all share the same mind._ He stifled a chuckle, thinking that on some level, his rationalizations sounded like the things he told himself when Anne allowed her parents to break them up at the end of college.

_Don't theorize, don't tell yourself that it's definitely this way or that,_ he told himself. _Deal with what you know, what you see. It's what you're good at._ He took a deep breath, relishing the scent of the shampoo in Sharon's hair. Truth be told, he was reasonably certain that everyone's hair smelled the same on _Galactica_ – after all, they were all issued the same type of shampoo from the quartermaster – but despite evidence to the contrary, Helo believed that Sharon's scent was different. And he needed it.

"It's time again," he whispered.

"I know." He had expected – even hoped – that she would try again to make him stay. But if she agreed, he would have no choice but to leave.

"I can't be late for the meeting," he explained, though she already knew that. He hoped that maybe his voice would help bring her as much comfort as hers brought to him.

"It's important," she agreed. "When are you coming back?"

"As soon as I can."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart."

"Now that you admit you have one, instead of playing the cold-hearted, bad-ass soldier all the time," Sharon joked, bringing a smile to Helo's face.

"Who would have thought?" he replied.

"I always did," she assured him. "Every time we went out in the Raptor, every time I felt how close we were – almost like we were parts of the same person – I knew you had a heart. There was no other way we could have been so close."

"I have to go," Helo said, trying not to think about the nature of the two Sharons – that never ended with anything other than confusion and a headache.

"Only say good things about me," Sharon said as Helo stood up and walked toward the door, motioning for the marine to let him out.

"What else could I possibly say?" Helo asked with a smile.

Once he was out of the brig and headed toward his meeting with Dr. Drake, Helo started focusing on answers to potential questions that might come up. _"Is there anything she's ever said or done that would ever have made you suspect she wasn't really human?"_ Drake had asked during their previous meeting. Helo had been stumped, completely unable to think of a single instance that he could cite as a response; it had made him feel foolish at first, since he and Sharon had spent so much time together and she had turned out to be indisputably not human. _No,_ he decided, _she's every bit as human as anyone else I've ever met._ Every doubt he might have had was wiped away when he took a deep breath and smelled the scent of Sharon's shampoo clinging to him.

-------------------------------------------------

"This would have been more fun with a few more players," Starbuck commented, not for the first time.

"Think of it as a chance to hone your skills," Apollo replied. "Despite what you always say – and may even believe in that smoke-clouded mish-mash you call a brain – Full Colors isn't all about luck."

"So my having the vast majority of the chips right now has nothing to do with luck, but with my superior skill?" Starbuck asked, taking a long puff of her cigar. "Could it really be that my smoky mish-mash brain is just that much superior to yours?"

"And you wonder why no one ever wants to play cards with you anymore."

"I don't wonder," Starbuck said with a casual shrug. "It's because I used Racetrack's face to redecorate the table last time I was on a losing streak."

"That didn't help," Apollo admitted, ignoring the truth that the incident had had nothing at all to do with a losing streak.

"Don't worry Lee, I'll get you to believe in luck someday," Kara assured him.

"Is this where I'm supposed to insert some joke about getting lucky?"

"I would," Kara said with a smile.

"I don't doubt it." Lee dealt the cards and watched as Kara looked at her hand. The corner of her lip curled the slightest bit, and she tapped her index finger absently on the table, her expression and behavior practically shouting, 'These cards suck, Lee! Please take all my chips from me this hand!' Apollo wished he could oblige her, but a look at his own hand made him doubt he'd be doing much more than bluffing, no matter how bad Kara's cards were.

"Can I ask you something?" Apollo said, laying down his cards and putting off a decision as to how best to proceed with his hand.

"Just did," Kara replied.

"You know what I mean, Kara."

"Go ahead, Lee. I don't think there are any secrets left between us." Lee didn't miss the sarcasm in her voice, but he passed on the opportunity to take the conversation in a different – and inevitably destructive – direction.

"You ever think about dying out here?"

"Huh?" Starbuck put down her own cards and gazed intently into Lee's eyes, trying to read his expression. That was, perhaps, the last question she ever expected to hear from him.

"You know what I mean," Lee explained. "We're not getting help from anyone, and we're fighting a losing battle."

"No offense, Captain, but you better not let anyone else hear you talking like that," Starbuck said. "I remember reading something about morale when I was back at the Academy. Something like bad morale can kill an army just as surely as bullets."

"Uh-huh." Apollo smiled, but he did not change the topic. "There isn't anyone else here, Kara. It's just you and me."

Starbuck sighed and leaned back, considering how she wanted to answer the question. Lee – as annoying as ever – sat in complete silence, patiently waiting for her answer. "I don't know that I've really thought about it," Starbuck finally said. "I mean, once in a while it occurs to me that my luck isn't going to hold out forever--"

"There you go talking about luck again," Apollo interrupted.

"--But it's not something I let bother me," Starbuck continued without missing a beat. "I mean, I'm a Viper pilot. It's a dangerous job, and I knew it was something that could get me killed. Really doesn't matter whether I'm shooting down smugglers or pirates, or whether I'm squaring off against cylons after the fall of the Colonies. My job is the same either way – I go out and keep shooting my targets until they shoot me first. Pretty simple, really."

"You make it sound that way," Lee admitted. _Ares seemed thrilled at the situation, and Starbuck is at least indifferent. Am I the only one who has thought through our situation or what?_

"You're just all confused because being the C.A.G means there's other stuff for you to do. All that paperwork is giving you too much time to think." Starbuck gave a frown that looked more like a grimace, and Apollo couldn't help but laugh. "You just need a chance to just go out there and kick a little ass," Starbuck said. "It'll make you feel better."

"Gonna get that," Apollo said with a smile. "And you'll get a chance to do some of my paperwork while we're gone," he added with a grin. Reminding Kara that she would be the acting C.A.G while he was away was the best vengeance he could think of for losing all of his money to her in their game.

"Sure, laugh it up," Starbuck groused. "Just remember – I have it in my power to screw up all of the C.A.P rotations and cause you no end of grief when you get back. I could make it so it'd take you weeks to get everyone's rotation back on track."

"You wouldn't."

Kara grinned ruthlessly.

"You would."

Kara nodded.

"Some friend you are."

"Serves you right," Starbuck said. "You're the one who started talking about getting killed by cylons. Seemed like it was my responsibility to remind you that there are worse things than death."

"Like paperwork."

"Yup," Starbuck agreed. "Paperwork, and these cards. This is the worst hand I've seen all night."

"I know," Apollo admitted. "Not that I'm in any position to do anything about it."

"Feel like a spin in the simulator?"

"You're on," Apollo grinned.

"Hope no one else is using it," Kara said as she stood and raced toward the door, hoping to get to the flight deck before Lee. She had decided that Viper B definitely had the superior computer, and she wanted first dibs.

"Doesn't matter," Lee called out, just two steps behind her. "I can boot anyone out of the simulator at any time. Sometimes it's good to be the C.A.G."

-------------------------------------------------

"Hey," Billy said, smiling broadly when he opened the door and saw Dualla standing there. "What are you doing here?"

"Though I'd come by and surprise you," she told him with a smile.

"Well, I'm definitely surprised." He grabbed her in a quick embrace before taking a half-step back to admire the view. "You look good."

"Just good?" Dualla asked with a playful pout.

"Okay, you look fantastic. How long can you stay?"

"I'm actually on my way up to CIC," she said with an apologetic shrug. "I'm only on for four hours, and then we'll have some time… probably about twelve hours."

"Good."

"But you may be too busy," Dualla told him.

"Huh?" Billy checked his mental 'To Do' list, trying to determine if there was something he forgot. _Finished my paperwork, delivered the president's messages, picked up a new supply of chamalla extract from Doc Cottle… Nope, I did everything I needed to._ Then a new thought occurred to him. _Oh, frak. There's something new and unexpected that I get to deal with now. Joy._ Thoughts of spending twelve hours in his cabin with Dee melted like ice in summer.

"I work in communications," Dualla explained. "I hear things."

"What kind of things?" Billy asked suspiciously.

"You'd be surprised." An embarrassed, almost guilty smile spread across her lips. Billy was certain that someday he would get to hear some very interesting stories, but for now he knew he would only get to deal with business. "With shuttle traffic all but completely shut down, communications have become even more important. The amount of chatter is incredible."

"And you keep listening in," Billy surmised, now knowing why she looked a little guilty. "I never really thought of you as an eavesdropping gossip."

"I get bored sometimes," she answered, grinning widely.

"So what's up?"

"You ever hear of a woman named Doreah Spring?"

"Can't say that I have."

"She's a Sybil," Dualla explained. A groan escaped Billy's mouth before he could catch himself. "I know how you feel about religion and the gods, but there are a lot of people who listen to her," Dualla explained.

"And what's she saying?"

"She says that Tom Zarek is the Condemned Man mentioned in Pythia's prophecies."

"Great," Billy muttered. _No way will I get to stay with Dualla for a few hours now. Chalk up another reason why it would be better for everyone to be atheist._

"You gonna tell President Roslin?"

"Seems a bit important," Billy said sarcastically. There was a slight flash in Dualla's eyes, the only indication that his tone had hurt her. "Sorry… yeah, I'll get in touch with her right now. Can you set up a secure channel when you get to the bridge?"

"Sure, Billy," Dualla responded, smiling and seeming to pay extra attention to swaying her hips as she turned and walked away down the hall.

_She does that on purpose,_ Billy thought. _She loves to torture me, that's what it is._

_To be continued…………………………_


	9. A Change of Plan

Ron Moore reimagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way meant to challenge any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**IX – A Change of Plan**

"Stand down, Apollo," Commander Adama's voice rumbled over the comm.

"Say again, _Galactica_," Apollo replied, glancing over at Racetrack.

"Stand down. We're aborting the mission."

"Commander, we're--"

"We're aborting, Captain," the commander ordered in a tone that told Apollo there was nothing he could do or say to change his father's mind.

"Copy, _Galactica_," Apollo said. "Powering down." He practically leapt out of the pilot's seat and jumped down to the flight deck. "What the hell is going on?" he shouted at Tyrol. The chief only shrugged his shoulders.

Apollo threw his helmet aside and started to the bridge, long, powerful strides making no secret of his anger about the mission being scrubbed. He was halfway to the bridge when two marines walking in the opposite direction stopped him. "Captain, come with us," one of them said.

"What?"

"The Commander wants you in the Sit-Room, sir."

"I know the way," Apollo said, pushing past the two marines and leaving them behind as he went in search of answers. He was surprised at his own anger, but he didn't stop to dwell on it. Minutes later, he walked into the Sit-Room and settled his eyes on the commander, the president, Doctor Cottle, and Colonel Tigh."

"Took longer than I thought," the commander said with the hint of a grin.

"Why'd we abort?"

"Sit down, Captain," the commander suggested, gesturing toward an unoccupied chair. Apollo did as he was told, and the commander continued. "We didn't abort, Lee. We're discussing altering the mission."

"Altering it how?" Apollo asked suspiciously. Once he subdued his own irritation, he noticed that the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

"I'm going along," President Roslin answered.

"Commander, I think the president's suggestion is tactically unwise," Apollo said immediately.

"You've been spending too much time with the president and her politician friends," Adama responded. "It's amazing how respectful and diplomatic you can sound when you're saying someone is being foolish." He smiled at the president, who smiled back, despite his brazen insult. Not for the first time, Apollo wondered at the strange nature of the friendship between his father and the president.

"I need to do this," the president said.

"This is a military mission," the commander replied. "There are three military vessels, staffed fully by military personnel, making a trip to a military research facility to recover military assets. With all due respect, Madame President, your opinion means less than nothing in this instance."

"I'm dying," the president replied, her hands folded in front of her as she fixed her gaze on the commander. "Your people are going to a medical research lab. There may be something there that can help me."

"At the very least, I'll be able to get some tests done," Cottle added.

"The president and _Galactica's_ doctor?" Tigh said. "That's a completely unacceptable risk."

"I understand the risk," Cottle answered. "That's why Ishay will go instead of me. We have an epidemic developing in the fleet; I haven't lost it so badly that I think it's a good idea to go on vacation to a research lab."

"We're not talking about going on vacation," Tigh snapped.

"It's all relative," Cottle replied, indifferent to Tigh's moodiness. "Spending a week in the cramped quarters of a Raptor, making small talk with Colonial marines is far preferable to tending to people who are dying from the Trojan Flu because I don't have anything to treat them."

"I need to go," the president said. "Now more than ever. We should have seen the possibility of Zarek using the religion card…"

"What do you mean?" Apollo asked.

"There are rumors spreading that he's the Condemned Man from Pythia's prophecies," the commander explained.

"And I'll lay a hundred to one that Zarek is the one who started those rumors," Tigh put in.

"I don't doubt it," Adama muttered, "but that doesn't mean we don't have to deal with it, all the same." He glanced at Apollo, and then almost imperceptibly at the president. Apollo couldn't help but wish that he could read his father's thoughts in that moment, that he could somehow learn how his father broke down decisions like this.

"We have to do anything we can," the president said, "if only to buy me some more time. Weeks, months… it'll mean a lot later on down the line. I have to get a few more people into key positions; I have to prepare the vice-president for Zarek's all-out political assault after my death. Prophecy gives him a potent weapon – I of all people realize that – but it's only one of his many weapons. We've seen what can happen when the civilian population turns against _Galactica_, and if we don't think Zarek will take advantage of that, we're fooling ourselves."

"We can't just send you out there on a Raptor," Adama said, sighing heavily. "There's the distinct possibility that this is a trap."

"I don't follow," President Roslin said. "You told me this would be a routine mission, just fly there and fly back."

"That's if everything goes well," Adama responded. "The fact is, I think it's a little convenient that we have an outbreak of the Trojan Flu within a week of the arrival of three men who just happened to recently visit a space station that was built because of the logistical problems caused by the last outbreak of this disease."

"You think Ares and his people are involved?" Apollo asked.

"I didn't say that," the commander clarified immediately. "It's very possible that the so-called doctors they met on the station were cylons – cylons posing as doctors like the one Starbuck reported treated her on Caprica – and that they somehow managed to sneak the virus aboard the _Chimera_. Ares and his people wouldn't be the first people who fell for a cylon deception."

"I see." Roslin's hands finally left the table, moving to rub her temples.

"Risking two Raptors and a freighter we only just added to our list of assets is one thing, but sending out a president who isn't just our chief executive, but also a religious figure seen as the object of prophecy… it's a big risk." The commander's eyes bored into the president's, as if he was daring her to defy his logic and conclusions. "Maybe too big."

"I need to go," the president repeated. "It's _because_ I'm a religious figure… and even more so because Zarek is trying to copy my performance by merit of his criminal convictions."

"You're going to have to board the station to use its testing equipment, right?" Apollo asked.

"I'm afraid so," Cottle answered.

"And that means we're sitting ducks if it _is_ a trap," he said. "The _Chimera_ is armed, but Raptors just aren't equipped to carry heavy weaponry, not to mention the fact that they aren't maneuverable enough to last long against cylon raiders. And of course, we already stripped them down to carry fuel and supplies, so it's not like we can throw weapons on them now even if we wanted to."

"What about a handful of Vipers?" Roslin asked. "We could have them flying around the station, on guard duty, so to speak."

"Vipers don't have FTL capability," Apollo explained. "That's not an engineering problem we're about to solve anytime soon."

"The only way to get Vipers to Chiron is to carry them out there," Adama added.

"We can't have the _Galactica_ leave the fleet," the president said.

"And there's no way it's an acceptable risk to bring the whole fleet back that way," the commander said.

"We can use a ship other than the _Galactica_," Tigh commented, drawing everyone's attention. "It's not like we've never done it before."

"We can't use a civilian transport like that," the president objected. "That one time was a unique instance, and don't forget it wasn't something I knew of in advance. I can't start allowing you to use civilian ships every time it might be easier than coming up with a practical solution."

"Then maybe we should stop using the word 'civilian,' " Apollo suggested.

"Excuse me, Captain?" the president asked.

"Sooner or later, we have to face the fact that the cylons don't make a distinction between combatants and non-combatants," Apollo said. He could hardly believe he was actually using Ares' argument.

"I don't think that's a door we want to open," the commander said, making it clear that that line of discussion was over.

"How about turning just one civilian ship over to the military?" Tigh suggested.

"That's how it starts," Roslin objected.

"Let's be realistic for a minute," Tigh responded. "Most of the ships out there have absolutely no military value. But a few are built very solidly and could be converted into small military transports with a minimum of work."

"How minimum?" Adama asked.

"Three days."

"It sounds like this is something you've thought about, that you have one in mind already," the president said suspiciously.

"I do," Tigh admitted. Adama now looked as suspicious as the president. "I get bored sometimes," the colonel grumbled. That drew a smile from the commander, and more suspicion from the president.

"Which ship?"

"The _Aegina_," Tigh said. "It's a hydrogen harvester." Apollo had to admit that Tigh had chosen well. Used to siphon hydrogen from the upper atmospheres of gas giant planets, hydrogen harvesters were very solidly built, designed to withstand intense gravity wells, sudden and dramatic temperature fluctuations, and the powerful concussions that sometimes occurred when hydrogen ignited around the ship. Even better, they had large, pressurized holds that could easily be converted to temporary flight decks. _Though three days isn't going to be enough time to arm the thing._

"Do it," Adama said, his tone making his intentions clear – he would allow the president her folly, but she would have to play by his rules. Those rules meant the military just gained a new ship to support her escort of Vipers.

-------------------------------------------------

"You wanted to see me?" Starbuck asked as she walked into the C.A.G.'s office.

"Close the door," Apollo told her. She did, and then she sat down in front of him, her defiant gaze daring him to call her to task for whatever it was that he thought she had done this time. _For once, it wasn't me,_ she reminded herself. _I've been on my best behavior._

Apollo finished writing up a report while Starbuck waited silently, refusing to be the one to start the conversation. She watched his pen scrawl across the bottom of the page, signing off on what looked like a performance evaluation for one of the pilots. Starbuck wondered if it was hers, but she resisted the temptation to take a peek. There was a chance it was about someone else, and she respected the other pilots' privacy. At least when it came to official evaluations.

"You've been doing better lately," Apollo finally said, pushing all of his papers to the side.

"So I get a gold star?"

"You get to keep flying," Apollo retorted with a smile. "And I guess you get the privilege of knowing your Viper won't be rotated to any other pilot unless there's an emergency."

"Promise?"

"Sure." Lee smiled as he stood and walked to a small desk across the room. "Coffee?"

"Please."

He poured two cups and returned to his seat across from Starbuck. "I've been looking over this op that we've been putting together."

"So the mission wasn't scrubbed?"

"No, just delayed," Apollo told her. "For reasons that will become apparent very quickly, what I'm about to tell you is strictly classified."

"Fine."

"We're refitting the _Aegina_ to take along with us," Apollo explained.

"To bring back extra supplies?"

"That's one reason," Apollo confirmed. "That's even going to be the official reason. We're also going to load up some Vipers to provide air cover, in case it's a trap."

"And you're afraid that a cylon spy might find out our Viper complement is going to be taxed even more," Starbuck guessed.

"When word gets out that we sent along some Vipers, that's going to be the exact reason we'll give," Apollo confirmed. "But that's only a half-truth to cover up the most important part of the mission."

"Which is?"

"President Roslin is going, too."

"What! The commander okayed that?"

"It's a medical station," Apollo answered. "She's looking for some kind of treatment that may help, especially with all this Condemned Man crap that only seems to be getting more out of hand with every hour."

"So you're sending Vipers to provide air cover for the president."

"Yes."

"And something beyond the obvious has you concerned." It was a statement, not a question. Sometimes he hated how transparent he was to her.

"The commander has concerns," Apollo replied. "Though I guess I share them."

"Such as?"

"Bringing the president along to the station raises a whole new set of risks," Apollo explained needlessly. "We have to ensure her safety, because for many of our people she's become more than just the head of state."

"She's the object of prophecy," Starbuck said, finishing Apollo's thought for him.

"Tigh's idea of refitting the _Aegina_ is a good one, but it creates another problem."

"And that is?"

"The _Aegina_ will be able to carry six Vipers to the Chiron station," Apollo explained. By our best estimates, it's a three-day trip there, and three days back. Maybe three and a half, depending on how far the fleet travels while the ships are away."

"Plus at least half a day to scavenge what supplies we can and get them back here," Starbuck added.

"So figure the mission takes a week."

"Okay."

"That means we're taking a significant portion of our Vipers and sending them away for all that time," Apollo explained. "And like you already pointed out, that's going to place tremendous strain on the pilots who remain behind, since they'll have to cover all the C.A.P.s until the mission is over. It's also going to mean we're at less than 100 if the cylons find the fleet."

"Not that being at 100 is all that big a deal, given the losses we've already suffered."

"And therein lies the problem."

"You have any ideas for how to deal with it?" Starbuck asked.

"One. But I don't like it."

"And that is?"

"One of us has to stay here with the fleet," Apollo explained.

"I knew it – if you think for one second that I'm staying on the _Galactica_ again while you go out on the mission--"

"Lieutenant," Apollo barked. "I'd appreciate it if you waited to hear the orders before you start objecting to them."

"Fine," Starbuck spat back, crossing her arms and waiting for Apollo to speak, already formulating the arguments she would raise.

"I'm the one who's staying behind," Apollo told her.

"Huh?"

"You're the best pilot we have," Apollo admitted, "though if you ever tell anyone I said that, you'll be grounded for a month." Starbuck failed completely in her attempt to hide her satisfied smile. "If the cylons find our task force, you'll be outnumbered. Vastly outnumbered. You give them the best chance for survival; you give the president the best chance for survival."

"Thanks."

"But I need to be able to trust you out there," Apollo added, his eyes boring into hers. "I need to know that you're actually getting your head screwed on straight rather than just behaving in the short term, that I can trust you not only to fly, but to be responsible."

"Flying is about guts, about instinct," Starbuck objected. "Thinking gets in the way."

"Maybe for you, but while not thinking may serve you well, it'll do nothing for the pilots who need to act on your orders."

"You offering me command?"

Apollo nodded.

"I don't want it," Starbuck told him. "Don't get me wrong – I want to go – but I don't want the command. Give it to someone else. Give it to Ares."

"That's exactly what I want to avoid, Starbuck. You're the best pilot we have," Apollo reminded her. "Command goes to the best. It's that simple. It's time to grow up, Lieutenant. If you want to go on this mission, you'll accept command of the flight group. And if you accept command, you have to remember that no one will be there to pick you up if you fall. There won't be anyone else to rally the other pilots and fix the situation if you get in it. It's either you, or no one."

"Okay."

"And one other thing," Apollo added with an ominous tone. "As the ranking Viper pilot, as the one in command of the flight group, you'll be empowered to make all military decisions that affect those Vipers; it will be like you're the commander's voice out there."

"I understand."

"That means you don't do what the president tells you to if it's not tactically advisable."

"I got it."

"That means there will be no repeat performances of your adventure to Caprica."

"I told you I got it."

"Make sure you do," Apollo told her. "The other pilots will be counting on you, and the president needs you to get her back here alive, whether she appreciates your methods or not. Command isn't a popularity contest; it's only about the results, about the success of the mission."

"I understand, really," Starbuck assured him. "And you don't need to give me the official C.A.G.'s mission briefing pep talk or whatever this is, either. I won't let you down."

"I know you won't," Apollo said, smiling despite himself. "But that's not good enough," he added, suddenly growing very serious. "I need you to do one other thing."

"What's that?"

"I need you to promise me – as your superior officer, as your friend… and as Zak's brother – that you'll make sure you get yourself back here alive, too. Okay? That means none of your crazy hero stuff."

"Lee… I mean, Captain, when have I ever given you reason to believe I'd go off and do some kind of crazy hero stuff?" A lopsided, cocky grin spread across her face, and Apollo was unable to stifle a chuckle. "Am I dismissed?" Starbuck asked.

"Sure," Apollo said with a grin.

-------------------------------------------------

"Have a seat, Colonel," Commander Adama said. Tigh looked from Adama to Major Rutger, and then sat down in an empty chair.

"We're going to discuss the marines," Adama began. "Since the major is a marine and you're a fleet officer, I've asked him to take over the marine detachment on _Galactica_," he told Tigh. The colonel nodded, his expression devoid of any hint as to whether he was relieved or disappointed. "However, the major has requested that you remain the CO for the time being," Adama added.

"Stay on?" Tigh replied, confused.

"The major's only experience has been in the field," Adama explained.

"I've never been in command of anything other than a strike team, sir," Rutger added. "That included planning an op, executing it, and then getting extensive shore leave to get a release from the stress. To be honest, I don't know that I'm ready for this assignment."

"Is that so?" Tigh asked. He looked closely at Rutger for a few moments, then said, "What else is bugging you?"

"Sir?"

"Running this detachment is easy enough," Tigh replied. "It's mostly paperwork, and I assume you're literate. What's your real problem here?"

"What are you getting at, Colonel?" Adama asked. Clearly there was more going on here than he knew, and he hated being in the dark about anything on his ship.

"I've heard a few rumors," Tigh explained. "There was that problem with that cylon in the brig a couple of days ago, a few of the flight deck specialists getting it in their heads that they should space the prisoner."

"That's been dealt with," Adama said curtly, failing miserably at hiding his irritation. _Maybe I should have kept Cally in the brig for a while longer the first time,_ he wondered. He had not seen much of a legal basis for imprisoning her for murder the first time she took it upon herself to attack a cylon – _a cylon that was in custody because she tried to kill me_ – but this time… _It's not that I have any affection for the cylon,_ he told himself, wondering at the fact that he always started this train of thought with that stipulation. _But it _has_ been helpful, and it _is_ going to give birth to something. I can't expect the rest of the crew to make a distinction between the cylon I tacitly allowed them to murder and the one we currently have locked up, but they're not the same. But I don't have to explain myself for the crewmen to get it through their heads that no more violence will be accepted aboard my ship._ His final solution had seemed best – double-shifts for a week, loss of pay, loss of all accrued personal time. Money had no real meaning, and time in the brig was time away from work. The only effective punishment appeared to be to take away all possibility of time away from the deck, and there had been no repeat incidents after the commander adjusted his thinking regarding discipline.

"The problem _with the cylon_ was dealt with," Tigh corrected. "The crew is still looking for an explanation as to where the flu came from, and their latest theory is that Rutger and his crew brought it."

"They were screened by both Baltar and Cottle," Adama said wearily. "They're not cylons, and they're not sick."

"They know that, sir," Rutger responded. "They're just tired and scared, and they're looking to make sense of what's going on. They'll get over it soon enough."

"They better," Adama said. "Colonel, I want you to stay on for at least a few more weeks, in name only."

"Of course."

"And major, I expect you to deal with your marines," the commander said. "It'll take time to earn their respect, but I sure as hell expect you to get their obedience."

"Yes, sir."

"Select a half-dozen of them for the op we were just discussing. The rest of them will stay here under Hadrian's command."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

No sooner had Rutger left than Tigh was looking for information. "So you're set on going through with the president's half-ass plan?"

"Even _I've_ heard the rumors about Zarek," Adama said. "That should tell you all you need to know."

"Tells me people are being stupid."

"Religion broke the fleet up once before," Adama pointed out. "We didn't take it seriously last time, we didn't expect so many ships to break away and follow Roslin to Kobol. They followed because of their faith, because of their need for a savior. If people start believing Zarek is their next savior – whether they should have their heads examined or not – we should pay attention and plan accordingly."

"Maybe," Tigh reluctantly conceded. "But you're putting Rutger in command of the op?"

"No," Adam said with a weary smile. "I may be old, but I'm not senile. His record shows that he's capable, but no one will respect his authority yet. He's only going to select and prep a team to take onto the station, to watch over the ship's crew just in case something goes wrong. You'll be in charge of the mission."

"What?"

"This mission is important, Saul," Adama responded. "I need someone capable, someone I can trust."

"Send someone else."

"There is no one else," Adama barked, slamming his fist on the tabletop. He took a moment to regain his composure, as surprised at his outburst as Tigh obviously was. _Too much to do with no available assets to do it,_ he thought for the umpteenth time. _I'm no miracle worker – it's time for my officers to start stepping up._ "This fleet has two officers capable of command in a combat situation – you and me. The _Galactica_ is mine; I have to watch over the fleet. That leaves you."

"I don't know, Bill."

"This isn't a request, Colonel," Adama said, disappointed that he had to address his friend and XO this way. "This is an order. I think the president's hare-brained idea is as necessary as it is foolhardy, but it's got to get done. I need someone to coordinate the _Aegina_, the _Chimera_, two Raptors, and a detachment of Vipers. I need someone the _Aegina's_ crew will listen to; I need someone who can get those supplies loaded in the short time it takes for Roslin to get her tests done; and I need someone who can hold off the cylons if this is a trap."

"Yes, sir." Tigh's eyes were blank, his expression unreadable. But Adama could tell that at least there was not an ounce of hesitation. _I guess that's realistically as much as I can hope for right now._

"Apollo is organizing the flight team right now," Adama said. "The crew of the _Aegina_ is formally enlisting in the service, so you'll officially be in command and will have full authority over anyone on the ship."

"Yes, sir."

"Another thing – I want a new name for the _Aegina_," Adama added. "It's going to be a military vessel… come up with something more fitting."

"Yes, sir."

"And think of it this way," Adama said, hoping to elicit some kind of reaction from his XO. "This'll be a chance for you to have a few days away from Starbuck."

-------------------------------------------------

"Pour yourself some coffee and get comfortable," Starbuck told Ares as he walked into the ready room, descending the stairs and looking over the schematic that Starbuck had taped to the dry-erase board.

"I thought there was no food or drink in the ready room," Ares said, his eyes already poring over the details of Chiron's design, noting each of the airlocks and looking for the fastest route to the medical labs.

"Apollo's rules don't count when he's not here," Starbuck said with a smile. "We're gonna be here awhile, so that means coffee."

"An all-nighter before we leave?"

"Shouldn't be any fighting tomorrow," Starbuck reasoned. "We can sleep then, once we're sure we have a plan and that you and I are on the same page."

"Your briefing was pretty thorough," Ares told her. "I don't think there're many questions."

"Well I have a few," Starbuck said, staring down the much larger pilot. Ares' only response was a grin. "I know all of my pilots from here on _Galactica_," Starbuck explained. "I know their strengths and weaknesses, and I know how they'll react if we get in a fight."

"But you don't know me at all," Ares said, summing up her concerns in a few words. "You've probably heard Apollo tell a few stories about me, and maybe that has you concerned. But then again, a look at my service record will let you know I have combat experience."

"And a history of disciplinary issues," Starbuck pointed out.

"Look who's talking."

"Yeah, it's the commanding officer of the fighter group," Starbuck snapped. "So you'd best keep that in mind."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And if you ma'am me again, I'm gonna knock out a few of those perfectly straight teeth," Starbuck replied, forcing herself to grin and lighten the mood immediately. She was still uncomfortably conscious of the fact that she was trying to find an effective command style. "Truth be told, I'm concerned about your time after the military more than anything else."

"As a bounty hunter."

"As someone who doesn't have to answer to anyone else," Starbuck clarified. "I just want to make sure you remember that there's a thing called the chain of command, and you're expected to respect it."

"So Apollo keeps telling me," Ares joked. Starbuck did not share a laugh – or even a smile – so Ares' expression melted back to pure business. "I understand, Lieutenant," he assured her.

"Good. But since you brought it up, what kind of action have you seen?"

"I assume we're talking about combat and not bars," Ares replied.

_He's completely incapable of being serious,_ Starbuck decided. Then, with a shudder, she realized that most people on _Galactica_ likely thought the same about her. She scowled, her stern expression chasing away Ares' smile.

"Fine, combat. I was in several dogfights with pirates," he told her. "Food riots on Sagitarron eight years ago, combat insertion during the _Damocles_ mutiny, and several ops that, as far as I know, are still classified. For what that's worth now."

"You earned almost as many combat commendations as you did disciplinary reprimands," Starbuck commented. "Almost."

"I never took to peacetime," Ares said with a shrug. "I like action. I like waking up and not knowing if I'll live to see my rack again when the day is done. I like being shot at. I like shooting back."

"People like you can be dangerous," Starbuck responded. _This is exactly what Lee was talking about,_ she decided. Apollo had made several ambiguously worded comments about Ares' personality, and she had always suspected that the C.A.G. had several things he wanted to say but held back for some reason. _He's a loose cannon._

"Yes, people like me can be very dangerous," Ares agreed. "With luck, I'll only pose a danger to our enemies."

"I don't like counting on luck, and we're not expecting any enemies," Starbuck pointed out. "I need to know you won't do anything stupid, perhaps 'inadvertently' – I would hope not intentionally – to bring a fight down on us."

"Like breaking radio silence," Ares suggested. "You paid very close attention to my file." He shrugged his shoulders, making an attempt at bravado that did not impress Starbuck at all. "I never made that mistake a second time."

"So it was a mistake?"

"You think I wanted that firefight to happen?"

"I don't know what to think," Starbuck admitted. "I don't know you, and that makes me nervous. But Captain Adama thinks it would be a good idea to have that ship of yours out there with us, and from what he's told me, I'd have to agree. But having your ship means taking you along."

"And that brings us back to how you don't trust me."

"Do you see any reason I should?"

"Just by looking at my file?" Ares asked. "No."

"So what is there outside of the file that should make me think you're not going to 'make a mistake' that's going to attract cylon attention?"

"I can give you my word."

"Did you give Commander Pycelle your word, too?" Starbuck asked, referring to an incident where Ares ordered his squadron to go from concealed observation to all-out attack in violation of orders.

"I did," Ares admitted. "But those pirates knew we were there, they were baiting us."

"The investigation found no evidence of that."

"And I was punished," Ares pointed out. "That's what lost me my wings. From squadron leader to permanently grounded in the span of a day and a half."

"You won't find any sympathy here."

"You've been grounded," Ares responded. "You know what it's like. Imagine having it be permanent."

"You got three of your pilots killed. You were lucky to avoid a court martial and several years in a stockade. In fact, I don't have any idea how you managed to weasel out of that and get command of a black ops team."

"It has to do with the classified portion of my file," Ares answered. "The _Galactica's_ databanks only have my declassified service record; we'd have to go back to Caprica for the rest."

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to share."

"I was given a direct order not to reveal that information," Ares said. "Now how am I going to convince you that you can trust me to follow your orders if I start mouthing off about classified ops I was ordered never to discuss?"

"Apollo's right – you can be a pain in the ass."

"But if all hell breaks loose, you'll want me there," Ares assured her.

"Probably," Starbuck admitted. There were precious few pilots with pre-war combat experience – officers on the fast track to promotion did not get assigned to a battlestar scheduled to be mothballed and converted to a museum. She was entrusted with protecting the president, and that meant using every available asset. _But does that justify rolling the dice on Ares?_

"Just give me a chance," Ares said. "You have my word, Starbuck – I won't let you down. I swear it."

-------------------------------------------------

"_Galactica_, this is the _Myrmidon_," Starbuck said over the comm. "We're ready for departure." She gave a sideways glance to Tigh, who sneered back in her direction. She was already counting the moments until she could get in her Viper and leave him safely behind, even if it would only be for a few hours of practicing the difficult combat landing on the _Myrmidon_. _Guy's going to make this whole mission miserable,_ she decided._ At least when he's not busy actively frakking the whole thing up. I'll bet the only competent thing he does during this whole mission is come up with a new name for the _Aegina_. At least he got that much right…_

"Raptor 478 has radioed in that first jump destination is secure," Dualla's voice replied. "_Myrmidon_, you're cleared for departure. Good luck."

"Make the jump," Tigh said.

A young man who hardly looked old enough to be in college – to say nothing of being old enough to handle the _Myrmidon's_ helm when there was the possibility of combat – nodded and managed to handle the controls without allowing Tigh's suspicious glare to break his concentration.

_Pseudo-soldiers,_ Tigh had called the ship's crew. Starbuck had initially been shocked that Tigh would ever confide any sentiment or opinion in her. Then it had occurred to her that it was completely predictable that the one time he thought Starbuck worthy of hearing his opinion was an instance in which it was totally inappropriate. _I don't know that he should be bitching and moaning to me about his damned command staff. Then again, I _am_ the commanding officer of the flight group on the ship, sorta like the Apollo to his Commander Adama._ Then she realized the comparison she'd just made. "Oh gods," she muttered. "We're totally frakked."

"What was that Lieutenant?" Tigh asked.

"Nothing," Starbuck said with a shrug. "Sir," she added quickly. She was not particularly fond of toeing the line around Tigh, but the bridge was full of men and women who had officially enlisted the day before. They remained on the _Myrmidon_ because they were familiar with the ship – the ship's captain, an old hydrogen harvester named Callysa, even stayed on as the XO – but no one other than Callysa had any Colonial military experience, and even she had only one short tour on a Colonial cruiser. _They have to learn about military discipline, and Tigh and I are going to be their role models. Maybe the commander doesn't really want us to make it back,_ she considered, a smile crossing her lips as her stomach lurched with the FTL jump.

A moment later an empty starfield came into view. _And so began the ill-fated mission led by Tigh and Thrace. This'll be one consciously omitted from the history books._

_To be continued…………………………_


	10. Separation Anxiety

Ron Moore reimagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way meant to challenge any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

**X – Separation Anxiety**

"What?" Apollo snapped as soon as he saw Kingston standing in the doorway of the C.A.G.'s office.

"Have I been grounded?" the pilot asked.

"No," Apollo replied, turning his eyes back to his paperwork. It occurred to him that he had been staring at the same weapons inventory report for several minutes without having absorbed an iota of information.

"Sir?" Kingston asked.

"Dismissed," Apollo replied.

"Why have I been taken out of the C.A.P. rotation?"

"You have a hearing problem?" Apollo asked, standing from his seat. Kingston looked lost for words, so Apollo plunged ahead. "I told you you're not grounded and that you're dismissed. Why are you still here?"

"Sir?"

"I juggled the rotations," Apollo said, and last I heard that's no concern of yours. Or has the commander ordered that I'm to run all my changes by you?"

"No sir."

"Then you're dismissed," Apollo told him again. Kingston turned and left, and Apollo could tell that the pilot was double-timing it down the hall away from him. _At least he reminded me that it's time for my C.A.P.,_ Apollo admitted. He had become so absorbed in paperwork that he had completely lost track of time.

Apollo walked down the corridors toward the flight deck, longing for the chance to be behind the controls of his Viper again. It would save him from thinking about the pilots he had sent out.

_I should have gone with them,_ he thought for the umpteenth time. _What the hell was I thinking when I gave the command to Starbuck? Ares is her second, and Tigh is in command of the op. How could this not end badly?_

When he reached the flight deck, Apollo was surprised to find his father waiting for him. "Can I have a minute, Captain?"

"Sure."

Adama gestured for him to follow toward a corner of the deck. "What are you doing, Lee?" he asked once he was certain that no one could listen in on them.

"Going on C.A.P.," Apollo answered.

"Unless I've read the schedule wrong, you pulled a double, took a shift off – apparently to do paperwork – and now you're going right back out there."

"Yes, sir."

"Get some sleep," Adama said. Apollo knew the tone well – his father was not making a suggestion, he was giving an order.

"I'm not tired."

"No, you're exhausted," Adama corrected. "I heard the way you chewed out Kingston earlier."

"What?" Apollo asked, dumbfounded that Kingston would have made a complaint about something so insignificant. "What did Kingston say?"

"I never said I heard _about_ the way you chewed him out," Adama answered. "I said I _heard_ it – I was on my way to check in on you."

"Check in on me?" _Like I'm a child that needs to be taken care of?_

"This is the first time you set up an operation and sent others to do the dirty work," Adama pointed out. "Not too long ago, I watched Starbuck practically climbing the walls in the C.I.C. while she was in the same position. I wanted to make sure you weren't having a hard time with it."

"I'm fine."

"I could tell," the commander replied with an unusual hint of sarcasm. "So could Kingston."

"I have to get to my Viper," Apollo muttered, moving to push past his father.

"I told you to get some rest."

"Was it an order?" Apollo challenged.

"Does it have to be?"

Apollo waited a beat before responding. "No," he finally said. "No, sir." He snapped his father a salute and walked over to Kingston, who was waiting next to his own Viper. _I guess he was told to come down here and wait on stand-by._

"You're on," Apollo told him as he walked past.

"Yes, sir," Kingston answered with a quick salute, carefully avoiding any hint of eye contact.

Apollo was surprised to find his father waiting for him at the exit from the flight deck. _He's not exactly spry anymore, and I wasn't exactly dawdling. How the hell does he do that?_

"Feel free to drop by if you want to talk at all," Adama offered.

"I'm fine, really," Apollo assured him. "This isn't the first time I've planned an op I didn't go on," he added. "I did this a few times already, working out by the mining settlements beyond Picon. It doesn't bother me."

He walked out without waiting for any additional comments from his father, though he was quickly grilling himself about his attitude. _Okay, everyone seems a little tense around me, so maybe I _am_ being a little grouchy,_ he admitted silently. _But it's only because everyone seems to be walking on eggshells every time they talk to me, like they expect me to be on edge or something. If people would just act normally, I wouldn't be so frakking on edge!_

Apollo reached his rack and lay down, reclining on his back and closing his eyes. It did not take long to realize he was not going to fall asleep anytime soon. He glanced at his watch – 14:00 – and did some math in his head. _Fifty-one hours until they should reach the target._ He wondered what Starbuck was up to and whether Tigh had thrown her in the brig yet. He wondered if Tigh was sober, if Kat was safely away from the stims, and if Ares was safely away from Kat. Then he wondered again what Starbuck was up to.

_I should have gone with them. What the hell was I thinking when I gave the command to Starbuck?_ "She'll be fine," he muttered to himself. "Nothing's gonna go wrong, and everyone will come back safely." _There's no reason to worry about her so much._

-------------------------------------------------

"The president isn't expecting a call from you," Billy Keikeya said as he answered Tom Zarek's call.

"Sorry Billy, but this is important," Zarek replied, irritated at the delay.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Zarek?" Billy asked.

"I need to speak with the president," Zarek said.

"She's indisposed."

"Is that so," Zarek replied. It was not a question, and his tone clearly indicated he was suspicious and displeased. "Look, I need to speak with the president," Zarek explained. "I don't have time to waste speaking with you."

"Could you tell me what this is about?" Billy asked.

_You've got to be kidding,_ Zarek thought angrily. "No," he answered curtly. "I'm a member of the Quorum of Twelve, and I need to speak with the president. I expect her to take my call."

"Would you like to leave a message?" Billy asked. It was an audio-only transmission, but Zarek could hear the smirk in the boy's voice.

"A message," Zarek repeated, pondering various ways of eviscerating the president's assistant. "Are you serious?"

"If it's not really important, you could try contacting the president again later," Billy suggested. Zarek was surprised Keikeya didn't giggle like a teenager making a crank call.

"You can stop your insolence right now," Zarek spat. "You're speaking to a member of the Quorum of Twelve, and even if your boss doesn't think much of me, I expect her interns to demonstrate at least a modicum of respect, whether you have to fake it or not."

"I'm sorry," Billy said immediately. "You're right, of course."

_Damn straight,_ Zarek seethed silently. "Now as I was saying, I need to speak to the president."

"I'm very sorry Mr. Zarek, but like I said, the president is indisposed." At least this time he sounded sincerely respectful.

"There are rumors that she's taken ill," Zarek replied. He did not bother to mention that he was the one who had started those rumors.

"Well, President Roslin _does_ have cancer," Billy pointed out.

"You know what I mean," Zarek growled. "I'm talking about the Trojan Flu. That's why she hasn't met with any reporters for the past two days."

"Well, she _has_ been feeling under the weather lately," Billy admitted. "And her weakened condition _does_ make her vulnerable. But that was the whole reason for moving her to _Galactica_ and giving her convenient access to Dr. Cottle and his sick bay; she can receive the best possible treatment "

"I already understand her reasoning," Zarek said impatiently. "I was in the room when she announced her plans. But another part of the plan was to have her speak with reporters at least every other day, to give the people progress reports and let them know if Adama's pilots have found anything useful."

"Yes, and she regrets not being able to make her speeches, but at this point I'm afraid she's overworked herself trying to get the fleet organized to meet the challenge of the flu." Zarek heard a hint of uncertainty and realized that Billy Keikeya was trying to cover for a president who was far sicker than she was letting on.

"Overworked herself?" Zarek asked. "She's hasn't gotten sick, has she? You can trust me, Billy… as a member of the Quorum of Twelve, it's my duty to assist the president if she needs anything."

"No," Billy said quickly. _Too quickly,_ Zarek decided. "She's just tired; she needs to rest," Keikeya added. "She needs to stop planning new…"

"New what?" Zarek asked eagerly. He knew the tone in Keikeya's voice – the boy had slipped up and given away something he shouldn't have.

"Nothing," Billy said unconvincingly.

"President Roslin is far more than the head of our government," Zarek pointed out. "She's a symbol of stability, a reminder of the once-powerful Colonial Government. And she's also become a holy figure to some. There are those who think she's the leader prophesied by Pythia," Zarek reminded Billy. "While that may bring comfort, the people know the prophecies well enough to realize that if she _is_ the leader, she's going to die before we reach Earth. If she's sick now, the people might panic."

"I understand that," Billy said. "Really, I do. The president is just--"

"--Indisposed, yes, I heard you the first two times," Zarek interrupted. "But if she had new plans, and if she spoke to anyone about those plans… Well, people might start to get suspicious about her health. We don't want people to lose hope. Right, Billy?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't you tell me what she was planning?" Zarek suggested. "I know President Roslin and I have had our differences, and I know you and she share information you don't want people outside to know. I understand that, and I would never ask you to betray her confidence." Zarek was amazed at how sincere even he thought he sounded. "The president and I will continue to disagree on things – you and I both know that – but this is a crisis, and right now we have to do what's best for the people of the fleet. We can deal with our differences later, okay?"

"Okay."

"So what is it that the president was planning?"

"She had been making plans with the commander to allow her to take a shuttle to visit every one of the ships in the fleet," Billy explained.

"That would take days," Zarek answered, impressed that Roslin would have undertaken such an ambitious plan. _Then again, it's just like her,_ he decided. _She'd get herself out there to be seen by all the people, looking compassionate as she kissed babies and made promises about how Adama's lost cause will set everything right. If Adama would allow civilian inter-ship traffic, it's the kind of thing I might have done, myself._

"She doesn't care how long it would take," Billy said.

"She just realizes the people need to see their leaders right now," Zarek guessed.

"They _will_ see their leaders," Billy said confidently. "She'll be fine."

"Billy, she has cancer," Zarek countered. "I've seen people dying from cancer – the good days and bad days, times when they're ready to take on the world, and times they can't even sit up in bed. I can help you."

"We don't need help," Billy objected. "President Roslin is perfectly able t--"

"I'll make the rounds," Zarek said. "I'll let people know that President Roslin will be out to join me as soon as her duties will allow," he promised, hoping that Billy would believe him. "Vice-president Baltar is busy working with the medical staff; everyone knows and accepts that. The president has the burden of dealing with a fleet-wide medical emergency; people will understand that she cannot get out to meet them. As a former vice-presidential candidate, I have a certain visibility within the fleet. I can use that to go out and assure the people that the situation is well in hand."

"Okay," Billy relented. Zarek smiled, even as he was glad he would not be in the room when Roslin heard what Billy had done. _The people aren't completely stupid – they'll see me walking amongst them, the very image of health, unwilling to let a few germs stand between me and my responsibility of serving the welfare of the people, all while frail President Roslin wrings her hands in her hospital bed._

"I'll contact Commander Adama and discuss receiving flight plans," Zarek said. "I would appreciate it if you could advise him of what we've decided."

"Umm…"

"Billy, the people are counting on you for this," Zarek said quickly, making certain he did not allow Billy a moment's thought that might give rise to doubt.

"Okay," Billy agreed.

"Great," Zarek said, disconnecting the line as he already considered his itinerary through the fleet. _I should probably start at the _Aeolus_, where I can pick up Deaq. He did a good job getting that Sybil to start spreading the Word of Zarek. Maybe I can get him busy on a little project I have planned for _Cloud Nine_…_

Across the fleet, sitting comfortably in his quarters aboard the _Galactica_, Billy Keikeya smiled broadly. He could hardly wait to see the look on President Roslin's face when he explained to her how easily he got the great Tom Zarek to fall for their plan. _Visiting every ship in the fleet,_ he thought with a smile. _Like he said – it'll take days. And all that time, Tom Zarek will be too busy prematurely dancing on the president's grave to take a moment to ask where she is._

-------------------------------------------------

"Thanks for coming by, Captain Kelly," Ellen purred as she opened the door and settled her gaze on the officer in front of her. "I wasn't sure you'd accept my invitation." She had caught up with Kelly when he was just finishing up a double-shift in the C.I.C. The LSO – and acting XO – had been thoroughly worn out by that point, which suited Ellen Tigh just fine. She had long felt that men were more open to suggestion when they were tired.

"I can't stay long," Kelly replied. "What did you want to talk about, ma'am?"

"Why don't you come in and have a drink?" Ellen asked, ignoring the captain's formal demeanor. She had never spoken with Kelly before, and had only really seen him from afar a few times, but he had always seemed more gruff than prim and proper. Having him behave so much differently than she had expected was keeping her uncomfortably off balance.

"Like I said, I can't stay long. I'd hate to get comfortable just in time to have to leave."

_He's wary,_ Ellen decided. _He's wondering why I invited him here, wondering if maybe something I might say or do could impact his career._ "You have time for at least one drink, don't you?"

"I'm going down for a shift on the flight deck when I leave here, ma'am," Kelly explained. "I couldn't drink before duty, no matter how much I'd enjoy the company. That just wouldn't be right."

"I see," Ellen said, stifling a disappointed sigh as she continued to search for a way to start wrapping Kelly around her little finger. "It's just that Saul and I had had been discussing things on the ship, and your name came up in the conversation."

"It did?"

"Yes," Ellen assured him, satisfied that she found a way to get at the captain. _Every soldier wants the approval of his superiors. This one is no different._ "We were discussing the changes in the command structure here on _Galactica_."

"Ma'am?"

"Please, come on in for just a moment," Ellen suggested. "_Galactica's_ walls have ears, and I'm sure this is not a conversation you want people hearing about."

"Probably not," Kelly agreed, stepping hesitantly into Ellen's cabin.

"Like I said, the command structure on _Galactica_ is bound to change now that the _Myrmidon_ is a military vessel," Ellen said, pouring a drink for her guest whether he wanted one or not.

"I hadn't considered that, ma'am."

"You must keep very busy," Ellen said, walking up and placing the glass in his hand.

"I'm pretty much in charge of the flight deck," Kelly replied with no hint of conceit.

"And you'll likely have a lot more in the near future," Ellen pointed out.

"I don't follow."

"Well, Bill – I'm sorry, Commander Adama – is going to have to put an experienced officer in charge of the _Myrmidon_," Ellen explained, not missing the flicker of surprise behind Kelly's eyes when she referred to the old man by his first name. "My husband is in command now, and it's likely to stay that way. That means the _Galactica_ will need a new XO." The almost imperceptible flicker from a moment earlier suddenly grew into a bright flame of interest, and Ellen knew she had definitely hit her mark."

"Did the commander mention me, ma'am?"

"Your name has come up," Ellen said. "Saul and I have discussed the void that will be created if he is reassigned. He likes bouncing his thoughts off me sometimes, you see."

"And what did the colonel say? If you don't my asking…"

"Oh, not at all," Ellen cooed, glancing at the captain's glass. He took the non-verbal suggestion and gulped down half the drink all at once. "The colonel thinks you'd make a wonderful XO. That's why you're here, actually; he wanted me to run the idea past you – unofficially, of course – because I know both the commander and the colonel so well." Ellen knew it was unlikely the captain would believe her story if he ever stopped to give it any thought, but one look at his eager, exhausted eyes let her know that he was far more interested in indulging her sweet lies than he was in returning to the harsh reality that existed on the other side of the door to her quarters. It was a sentiment she had seen on many men's faces.

"Yes, ma'am." He emptied the glass with another gulp.

"Can I refill that for you, captain?"

"Umm… maybe just one more glass would be okay, ma'am."

"On the condition that you stop calling me ma'am. Call me Ellen, okay?"

"Okay."

"And relax," she added. "I don't bite, captain. Not unless you want me to."

_To be continued…………………………_


	11. Rendezvous

Ron Moore reimagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way meant to challenge any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

**XI – Rendezvous**

Starbuck's stomach lurched as the starfield blinked in front of her. The DRADIS console began to beep, and a quick glance told her that they had arrived at Chiron. "The area looks clear," she told Ares, seeing nothing but Chiron and Raptor 478 listed on her screen.

"Remain on standby," he told Rutger and Drake, both of whom were seated in the gunners' turrets. "I'm running a complete scan."

"Getting a signal," Starbuck said after a few minutes.

"This is the medical research station Chiron," a man's voice said. "Please identify."

"This is Rob Fetter aboard the _Chimera_," Ares replied. "I'm here with Lieutenant Thrace of the Colonial fleet."

"I thought that looked like your ship, Mr. Fetter," the man said, making no mention of Starbuck's presence.

"We're just here to make sure you're still alive and the area is clear," Ares explained.

"Well, we are and it is," the doctor answered cheerily. "Are you coming back aboard?"

"We're a scouting party," Ares explained. "My ship is docking, and we're boarding the station to make sure everything is clear, but then we're going to jump away for a little bit. Once we're organized, we'll be back with the rest of the ships."

"Understood," the doctor answered. "We're looking forward to your visit."

_……………………………_

"Dr. Hobber?" Starbuck asked, looking over the two men who stood before her. She was surprised to find that both were exactly as she had imagined them from Ares' description. One was old and plump, with thin gray hair that did little to conceal a pink scalp, a thin gray beard that was shaved closely enough for her to follow the line of the man's soft jaw, and bright blue eyes that seemed alight with mischief and mirth; the other man was his opposite in almost every way: rail thin with a thick mane of raven hair, pulled back in a ponytail that hung almost to his waist, deep brown – almost black – eyes that seemed almost as devoid of life as they were devoid of emotion, and a pallor that seemed fitting given the fact that the man had likely been out of sunlight for years.

"Easy enough guess, isn't it?" Dr. Hobber joked, his eyes defying all logic by brightening even more. It seemed the man was excited enough to burst. _Then again, it's not surprising given that his associate doesn't seem like he's alive, to say nothing of being personable,_ Starbuck admitted silently. "So you're Lieutenant Thrace?" Hobber asked.

"I am." Starbuck gazed at the man, trying to decide what to say or do next. _If I were Apollo, I'd have us well into our chores by now,_ she decided. _I'm not cut out for positions of authority._ "Permission to come aboard," she said, hoping that was an appropriate opening. It seemed it was.

"Of course, of course," Hobber said with a chuckle, waving her out of the airlock. "It's nice to have visitors. Oh, and this, of course, is Dr. Snow," he added with an apologetic shrug, gesturing to the station's other resident. A barely perceptible nod was Snow's only greeting.

"So you weren't very forthcoming over the comm," Hobber said, turning and starting to walk away; Starbuck assumed she was expected to follow. She fell into step behind him, trusting Rutger to stand guard inside the airlock. She was surprised that Snow stayed behind, as well.

"We need some supplies," Starbuck told the doctor. "I'm with a fleet of survivors, and we've had an outbreak of disease."

"Not surprising," Hobber sighed. "I can't imagine any surviving ships would be fit for any kind of extended voyage."

"Exactly."

"But you're a soldier," he said, gesturing toward her uniform.

"Pilot, actually."

"How is it that a pilot ended up with refugees?" Hobber asked. "Or is this group of survivors a military fleet? Are you planning a counterstrike?" he asked.

"A little smattering of military and civilians, actually," Starbuck answered, doing her best to be evasive. _Though what's the point? If he's a cylon, and if they're really all linked together, then he already knows who I am, where I'm from, and what the makeup of our fleet is._

"And you need supplies."

"I have a list," Starbuck said, producing a small, handwritten inventory that Dr. Cottle had given her. The writing seemed all but indecipherable to her, but Hobber did not seem to have any trouble reading it.

"You have a breakout of the Trojan Flu," Hobber commented.

"Maybe," Starbuck lied. "We're still running tests. I think this is precautionary."

"Of course," Hobber answered with a smile that told Starbuck he knew the truth, though there was no other indication that he knew he'd been lied to. "We have everything that you're requesting," he told her. "Is there anything else?"

"Umm…" Starbuck hesitated. There was something about his tone, about the knowing look in his eyes, that made her certain he already knew she was going to ask for something else. She felt a shiver run up her spine, and wondered at the feeling. _He seems harmless enough,_ she told herself, willing herself to act like the commanding officer she was. _Though maybe I should follow my instincts,_ she wondered. _If it seems wrong, wouldn't it be a mistake to bring the president in here?_

"Well, give it some thought, then," Hobber said with a magnanimous wave. "Perhaps we have some food stores you could use, too. Gods know Snow and I don't each much. Well, _he_ doesn't, anyway," the old doctor added, patting his own rather large belly.

Starbuck could not help but smile, suddenly feeling that there was something grandfatherly about Dr. Hobber. _That's what has me on edge,_ she decided. _He reminds me of grandpa, though he died… it must be fifteen years ago now._ "There is actually one other thing," she said.

"What's that, Lieutenant?"

"We have a sick woman from our fleet, and we brought her along to see if we could do some tests. She has cancer."

"An important woman," Hobber said.

"A sick woman," Starbuck corrected.

"From the look of this list, your fleet is likely chock full of sick people," Hobber chided. "There's only one reason to bring a single cancer patient all this way when there are likely other cancer patients – along with your Trojan Flu victims – elsewhere in your fleet. This is someone important. However, this is a military medical station, and you're a military officer. I am but a poor, lonely civilian consultant. Therefore, if you say she's just a random sick woman, then it must be so." He gave Starbuck a conspiratorial wink and grin, and she couldn't help but smile. "Rest assured that your secret is safe with me, Lieutenant Thrace."

"Thank you, doctor. And please, call me Starbuck."

"This is the medical lab, by the way, Starbuck," Hobber said, pointing toward a long glass wall that separated a lab from the hallway where they were walking. "I'll start prepping our imaging equipment while you're away."

"Then with your permission, I'd like to leave Major Rutger here with Dr. Drake," Starbuck said.

"Yes, we've already met, of course," Hobber replied. "I'll have Dr. Snow show them where our supplies are so we can make the transfer as quickly as possible. I assume you're on a timetable."

"Of course."

"So I assume you and Mr. Fetter will go to bring your patient?"

"And some other ships to carry supplies," Starbuck said.

"Then I'll make certain I'm ready by the time you and your people return, Lieutenant."

_……………………………_

"Get us back," Starbuck told Ares, as soon as she was settled back in the co-pilot's seat. "Raptor 478 will stand guard here while I go back and board the _Myrmidon_. Once you've dropped me off, you'll come back out here with the _Chimera_," she added, running through the plan one last time, as if she had not already given Ares his orders a dozen times already. To his credit, Ares feigned rapt attention, as if he had never heard any of this before.

"Once you radio that everything is clear, Raptor 923 will jump in to the far side of the system and come back toward you and Raptor 478, making sure there aren't any cylons hiding anywhere. Once the sweep is done, the _Myrmidon_ will jump into the system and launch the Vipers. Raptor 478 will immediately proceed to dock with the station while Raptor 923 will stop off to pick up the president and her guards; the Vipers will commence a combat air patrol within our perimeter."

"Understood," Ares said, powering up the thrusters and leaving the station.

-------------------------------------------------

"How's it going out there, Lieutenant?" Tigh asked over the comm, exactly five minutes after the last time he'd asked. _Right on schedule,_ Starbuck noted.

"It's all clear, Colonel."

"Nothing to report?"

"No, sir." _If there was, I would have reported it._

"Continue standing by. Tigh out."

Starbuck listened as each one of her pilots checked in with the C.I.C. on the _Myrmidon_, but she remained quiet, not bothering to switch her transmission frequency from Tigh's comm. She knew the reality of the situation – the landing party, along with the president, included the most important people on the mission. All of the Viper pilots were expendable, so if an attack came, her first priority was to radio Tigh. Only after he was warned to evacuate would she switch over to her pilots and give them their orders. _The whole process will only take seconds,_ she reminded herself, trying not to think about what could happen in only a few short seconds of combat.

_……………………………_

"The cancer seems to be rather advanced," Dr. Hobber commented, not telling Laura Roslin anything she did't already know.

"I've been using chamalla extract," she explained.

"Have a lot of witch doctors among your survivors, do you?" Hobber asked in a tone that reminded Roslin of Cottle's reaction when she first suggested the alternative treatment.

"It's been working," she explained.

"How would you know?" he asked her. "It's going to make you feel better for a while, sure, but it's dangerously addictive and it tends to cloud one's mind. It isn't going to heal you; it'll only mask the cancer's effects for a short time."

"How much more time do I have?" Roslin asked, trying to will Hobber to say at least four months.

"If you simply remain on the chamalla extract? Maybe three months, no more than four. Perhaps if you settled down and took it easy--"

"That's not an option," she interrupted.

"You're working yourself into the grave even earlier than you otherwise would."

"I have responsibilities," Roslin responded as stoically as possible.

"So you won't consider rest at all?"

"No."

"Even if it could mean the difference between life and death?"

"You just told me that I had four months at most," Roslin pointed out. "I don't think taking it easy will give me enough extra time to make it worthwhile to shirk my duties."

"Even if a little bit of rest could get you cured?"

"What?" Roslin could feel her heart pounding inside her chest as she looked at the doctor, searching for signs of deceit.

"There's a chance I could treat your cancer, Laura," Hobber explained. Roslin almost jumped when he addressed her by her first name – it had been longer than she'd realized since a relative stranger had done that – but she recovered quickly.

"The doctors on Caprica--"

"Were not as good as me," Hobber snapped impatiently. "Do you know what this station is?"

"Yes, it's a medical research facility."

"It's state of the art in every way," Hobber said. "The most advanced medical and genetic procedures are created here, and only the most gifted doctors were ever given access to the Colonies' toys here on Chiron and the rest of the Six Sisters." Roslin could hear the conceit in Hobber's voice, but she had to admit that it didn't seem he was lying. _It ain't bragging if it's true,_ she remembered Starbuck joking after someone said she was getting too big for her britches.

"So there's something you could do?" Roslin found it hard to ask the question, part of her terrified that speaking the words would wake her up from a dream where her greatest wish was coming true. She felt a momentary flash of guilt, just as she always did when she admitted that if she could have anything, it wouldn't be a restoration of the colonies or safety for her people – it would be her own life. _People talk tough about not being afraid of death, but they don't have to face their quickly approaching demise every moment of every day the way I do,_ she told herself for the umpteenth time, well aware that she was rationalizing.

"It will take time," Hobber explained, "but yes, I think your condition is treatable."

"How much time?"

"The treatments will go through three phases. The first will take three days--"

"That's too long."

"And you'll be completely spent, bedridden for at least a couple of weeks after it," Hobber continued, as if Roslin had never uttered a word of protest. "Once you've regained enough strength, we'll start the second phase. That will be significantly easier on you, but it will take about a month."

"I can't stay here that long."

"The third phase can't start until we know the second phase has been successful," Hobber told her, still ignoring the president's interruptions. "It's possible that we may have to repeat at least some of phase two before continuing to phase three. Phase three will also be brutal and debilitating, and that's a course of two to three weeks of chemical and radiation treatments. You'll be a shadow of the person you are now, even months from death as you are, but if all goes well, the cancer will be eradicated and you'll have a chance to live again."

"So that's a full course of at least two to three months of treatment, followed by the gods only know how much rest before I can function again," Roslin summed up. "And all of this will have to take place here?"

"These facilities cannot be duplicated unless we go to one of the other Six Sisters."

"I can't," Roslin finally decided, her voice barely a whisper. _I'm going to die. My responsibilities are going to kill me._ Despite another flash of terror at the thought of her own mortality, she smiled. _I guess I'm not so terrible a person after all. When the chips are down, I'm willing to accept my responsibilities and help my people even if it means my own life._ She wondered what Commander Adama would have said to her at that epiphany, but chased the thought from her mind. She found she greatly disliked her mind's tendency to wonder at ways to gain the commander's approval; it made her feel like she was young again, and that was something she would never be.

"Are you sure?" Hobber asked.

"That's the only way?"

"Medicine is limited," the doctor replied. "I don't remember Colonial science ever coming up with a way to miracle cancer out of the body. Only the gods could do that… and maybe not even them."

"You're a religious man?" Roslin asked, surprised at Hobber's comment. In her experience, the more intelligent and educated a person was, the more unwilling that person was to accept the existence of gods that could be even smarter.

"I don't know if I'd say I'm religious," Hobber replied with a warm smile. "It's probably better to say that I have faith in certain ideas. I've come to realize that I need comfort just as much as the next person… there's no harm in having faith in something if it makes you feel better."

"I see," Roslin responded, though she didn't think she did. From the way it sounded, Hobber purposely used religion as a crutch; she didn't think she liked the sound of that.

"But like I said, I think we can treat you, Laura. Perhaps you should think about it before you make such an important decision."

_……………………………_

"The president is almost finished," Tigh called out to Rutger. "How're we doing?"

"Almost done," Rutger replied.

"Define 'almost,' " Tigh shot back impatiently.

"Another hour, maybe," Rutger shrugged, looking over the crewmen and marines who were busily loading crates onto the two Raptors. "Definitely no more than two."

"Two hours my ass," Tigh spat. "You've got one, and I don't care what it takes to get it done." Tigh had felt uncomfortable boarding the Chiron station, and his anxiety had been steadily increasing. _It's a trap,_ he thought, not for the first time. As he had every time before, he tried to convince himself that he was just being paranoid, that there was no reason for the cylons to show up when they had left the station alone for so long already. But reason was useless. _It's a trap. I can feel it._

Tigh switched frequencies to Corporal Mitchell's line. "Tell the president she has an hour left," he said. "No more than that."

"Yes, sir," Mitchell answered from his post just outside the med lab.

_It's a trap,_ he thought again, checking the datapad in his hand. _We've finished loading ninety percent of our second run of cargo, and the president is just getting done. This is the perfect time to strike… some of our people will be starting to relax, thinking we'll pull this off without a hitch. Our ships are loaded and weighted down. Any minute now…_

"Colonel," Starbuck's voice shouted into his ear.

Tigh glanced at his watch – there were still three and a half minutes before they were scheduled to check in with each other. Tigh's stomach sank as his eyes started sweeping the cargo bay, picking out the location of all of his personnel. His mind was already so focused on the task at hand that he hardly heard Starbuck's next words.

"DRADIS contact, cylon raiders," she said.

"I read you, Lieutenant," he replied. "Rutger, we have incoming!" he yelled. The major immediately started rounding up the landing party as Tigh punched the button to activate the interior alarm. The deafening scream of the red alert sirens never erupted. _The alarm's been deactivated,_ Tigh realized. He had tested the alarm not an hour earlier, and it had worked fine.

"Starbuck, it's a trap," Tigh yelled over the comm. "Someone deactivated the alarm."

"Frak!" Starbuck yelled back. "Better round everyone up and get out of there fast, sir. We're really in it out here. I don't know how long I can give you."

"Understood," Tigh replied, changing frequencies to his marines. "Corporal Mitchell, come in."

"I read you, sir."

"Get the president and get out of there," Tigh yelled. "And don't trust that doctor she's with. We've been set up."

"Roger that."

"Tigh!" Starbuck yelled.

"Go ahead."

"The fighters were covering three of those heavy raiders, sir. We got two of them, but one of them got past us. You've got a boarding party." There was a loud thud to punctuate Starbuck's warning, and the steel plates beneath Tigh's feet began to tremble, reminding him just how little separated him from the vacuum of space.

"Oh, hell."

_……………………………_

Out of the corner of her eye, President Roslin noticed that her guard, Corporal Mitchell, was on the comm for the second time in under two minutes; then she felt an almost imperceptible shudder go straight through the station.

"They found us," she muttered.

"Huh?" Hobber asked. He seemed completely oblivious to the shaking in the floor as he continued to pore over some of Roslin's test results.

"Ma'am, time to go," Mitchell said, poking his head into the med lab. Roslin's two security guards were already moving quickly down the hall, making certain she had a safe path all the way to the cargo bay and out the airlock into a waiting Raptor.

"Doctor?" Roslin said, waiting for Hobber to fall into step behind her.

"He's not coming, ma'am," Mitchell said.

"What?" Roslin asked.

"Colonel's orders," Mitchell answered, entering the med lab and approaching the president, drawing his sidearm and keeping his eyes riveted on Hobber. "Let's go, ma'am."

"I'm not--"

"We're leaving," the corporal told her, seizing her by the elbow and cutting off all debate.

Roslin did not struggle against the marine's vise-like grip and allowed him to guide her down the hallways. The floor trembled intermittently, but there was no other sign that they were in any danger. She glanced back only once to see if Hobber was following, but the old man was nowhere in sight. _It seems like it's taking an awfully long time to get to the cargo bay,_ she thought. _It didn't seem like this long a walk when we came in._ She saw a hatch at an intersection ahead of her, finally recognizing her surroundings. They were two airlocks from the cargo bay.

"We're maybe a minute away," Mitchell said into his comm, replying to an unheard question.

That was when Roslin felt the wind knocked out of her as she fell to the floor. There was a deafening roar of gunfire, and she was aware that there was someone on top of her. "Stay down," she heard Hobber's voice tell her. _Where did he come from?_ she wondered. The gunfire stopped momentarily, and then a comparatively weak report of gunfire cracked out in response. _That would be Mitchell. Or maybe my guards,_ the president knew, noting how pitiful the humans' weapons sounded in comparison to the cylon guns.

There was only one scream, but immediately after there was silence. "We have to make a run for it," Hobber whispered. "Are you hit?"

"No." Roslin wasn't even aware that she was speaking, but she was certain that the voice she heard sounded just like hers.

"On three. One… two… three!" Hobber yanked her to her feet as he stood, and practically pulled her arm out of its socket as he dragged her forward. Gunfire rang out as they dashed through the intersection at the airlock, but the cylon had reacted too slowly. _It must have been making certain the guards were dead,_ Roslin decided.

They were in the cargo bay moments later. _That part of the trip seemed much shorter than I expected,_ the president thought, amused at her skewed perceptions. As soon as they ran into the cargo bay, Hobber yanked the president toward her right. The two of them tumbled to the floor just as gunfire rang out behind them once again, the cylon in the hall finally closing for the kill. Roslin knew she had escaped by a fraction of a second, and now she and Hobber were pinned behind some steel containers. She was not certain what kind of cover they would provide, and she could see Colonel Tigh and Major Rutger across the cargo bay, motioning for her to stay down.

_Now what?_ Roslin wondered, seeing no way out other than fighting. And she was under no illusions about their chances in a pitted battle against cylon centurions.

_……………………………_

"Stay down!" Tigh yelled across the cargo bay. President Roslin looked across at him, and Tigh smiled at the fact that there was not a glimmer of panic in her eyes. Hobber, on the other hand, was a completely different story. The old doctor was holding a small pistol in both hands, his entire body trembling with panic as he stared at the weapon with a curious expression, as if he had never seen anything like it before. Tigh had not thought it possible, but Hobber somehow managed to look even more terrified when a second centurion walked into the bay.

"Clear out of here," Rutger shouted at two crewmen from the _Myrmidon_. The men were two of the new recruits, Colonial Marines in name only, with no combat experience and a half-week's worth of training. They would only get in the way more than they would help. The cylons turned on Rutger and Tigh's position, opening up with a salvo of explosive rounds that shredded the metal containers they were using as cover. Both men barely managed to dive behind a steel girder that provided more substantial protection.

"Permission to risk using a grenade, sir," Rutger shouted over another burst of gunfire. The sound was deafening, and Tigh didn't bother to speak an answer. He only nodded his head and hoped for the best.

_I'll have to hope he knows enough to keep the explosives in the center of the room. Because if he doesn't, and if the hull is breached… well, I guess that'll bring the fight to a quick end._ The grenade went off with a deafening boom that kept echoing off of the metal walls, accompanied by a loud crash that announced that both cylons had collapsed. Rutger had managed to lob the grenade directly between the two centurions, and each lost a leg. Now they were momentarily prone. Tigh and Rutger made the most of it, emerging from behind the bulkhead and opening fire with combat shotguns, both loaded with explosive rounds.

The momentary success was almost enough for the cylon reinforcements to catch them off guard. Two loud footsteps heralded the arrival of another centurion, and Rutger and Tigh both dove for cover once again. Automatic weapons fire drowned out all other noise while bullets ricocheted around the room. A piece of shrapnel sliced into Tigh's face, opening a long gash in his cheek and narrowly missing taking out his left eye.

"This cargo bay can't take much more," Rutger yelled during a short pause in gunfire.

"Neither can I," Tigh replied, feeling a strange thrill as blood pattered down from his chin onto his lapel. _Never thought I'd be in it like this ever again,_ he thought. As dangerous a situation as he was in, he found it strangely comforting to be up against one cylon centurion with superior firepower; it was just simpler and more direct than being on the bridge of a battlestar, having to cope with an attacking cylon fleet.

"Roslin, you have to make a run for it," Tigh shouted to the president, though he had no idea how she would be able to make it. "We're gonna have to cover her," he added to Rutger. The Marine nodded, though he doubtlessly knew what Tigh had left unsaid. By covering the president, they would be exposing themselves; one or both of them was likely not getting out of the station alive.

_……………………………_

"We can't keep this up much longer," Kat said over the comm, not telling Starbuck anything she didn't already know.

Thus far, they had been lucky. _Very frakking lucky,_ Starbuck admitted to herself. _Seventeen cylon raiders down, and not a single Viper taken out._ "Our teams will be out of there any second now," Starbuck promised, though she was beginning to doubt it. She switched over to Tigh's frequency. "Colonel, I can't give you much longer." She was practically blinded by a flash to her right. She didn't look; she didn't have to. She had just lost her first Viper. _Don't think about it. Not right now._

"We're pinned down," Tigh shouted. Starbuck could hear the gunfire in the cargo bay far more easily than she could make out the colonel's words. _The old bastard might be an incompetent bridge officer and a raging alcoholic, but he's a mean son of a bitch, and he can fight like hell. He'll get them out of there…_ "We'll get moving somehow. Tigh out."

Starbuck switched over to the Vipers' frequency, cursing her timing in checking in with Tigh. "Starbuck?" Kat was yelling. "Hey, Starbuck!"

"I read you, Kat," she answered. "I was on with Tigh. Who got it?" she asked, spinning into a flat roll and shredding two cylon raiders without interrupting her train of thought.

"Mueller bought it," Kat answered.

"Joker, where are you?" Starbuck asked. Joker had been Mueller's wingman, and with Mueller down, that meant Joker was alone.

"He's with me," Ares answered. "I could use a wingman, Lieutenant."

"Stay there, Joker," Starbuck ordered. _Thanks for the save, Ares,_ she thought gratefully. If Joker had gotten shot down because she had been distracted with Tigh, she would never have forgiven herself. _How the hell does Apollo make this whole command thing look so easy?_

_……………………………_

"Never been shot at?" Hobber guessed, his drawn smile failing to drive the fear from his face.

"Not until today," Roslin admitted. "You?"

"It's been a while," the doctor said, his forced smile growing wider. He looked again at the weapon in his hand. "We're going to have to make a run for it eventually, you know."

"I know."

"On the count of three?"

"Sure. Just like last time." Roslin took a deep breath and steeled her nerves, looking across the bay to where Tigh and Rutger waited by the airlock. _At least a dozen steps away,_ she decided, gauging the distance as best she could and cursing her decision to give up jogging when her responsibilities as the Secretary of Education cut into her free time a couple of years earlier.

"Good luck, Madame President."

"You too, Doctor."

_……………………………_

"Now or never," Tigh told Rutger. "The Vipers can't hold much longer out there." Truth be told, he was amazed Starbuck and her pilots had lasted as long as they already had. _If it was as bad as she said when the toasters jumped in, they should have all been dead several minutes ago. Then again, the crazy bitch may be reckless and insubordinate, but she's the best damn pilot ever to sit in a Viper. If anyone can buy us a few more minutes, it's her._

"Get ready!" Rutger shouted to Roslin and Hobber.

When Tigh looked across, he saw that the president and doctor were already making a run for it. They were both halfway into their first stride when Tigh emerged from his cover. The centurion sensed movement on its right and immediately brought Roslin into its sights. Hobber stopped and raised his weapon, but by then Tigh and Rutger had each put a round through the centurion, putting it out of commission.

"Run!" Tigh yelled. Some part of his mind registered that his voice didn't seem as clear as it should have. There was a loud banging that seemed to reverberate through Tigh's head. He saw Hobber's eyes go wide, and then he looked toward the main hallway that led from the cargo bay. Three more centurions were entering, their heavy, thundering strides drowning out most all other noise, and two of them already had their arms raised.

To his credit, Hobber got the first shot. Unfortunately, his standard slugs were as useful as a BB gun against a battlestar. The rounds pinged off of the centurions' armor, and one of them returned fire. The doctor's body was laid waste before he hit the floor, explosive rounds tearing through him and spraying his blood across the wall behind him.

Tigh returned fire, his first shot going wide and the second hitting Hobber's executioner. He was aware that Rutger was firing, too, and the cylon in the rear collapsed to the deck. That left the third a moment to get off a salvo, and it did. A thunderous report rolled through the bay and Roslin collapsed to the floor in mid-stride. Rutger and Tigh both obliterated the cylon's head with return fire, but it was too late. _She couldn't have survived,_ Tigh knew in his heart as Rutger's brain seemed a second slower in decoding what he had just seen. It seemed that there was already a lake of blood surrounding the president on the floor, and she wasn't moving.

"President Roslin!" Rutger yelled.

"Get down!" Tigh yelled, catching sight of a thin man with long black hair, flanked by several red glimmers coming down the hall. _Red eyes… more cylons. And that other doctor…_ "We're leaving," Tigh ordered.

"We have to get the president," Rutger objected. "She still might be alive."

Shots rang out again, and Tigh felt his legs give out under him. _I've been shot,_ he knew, remembering the feeling all too well. _The whole op is just completely frakked._

_……………………………_

"Raptors are both away," Starbuck announced, catching sight of both ships speeding away from the station. "All ships provide cover and get ready for combat landings." That would be the real challenge; they had practiced combat landings on the _Myrmidon_ several times between FTL jumps on the trip from _Galactica_, but they had yet to all perform the tricky maneuver flawlessly in one go. Starbuck tried not to think about the silver lining of Mueller getting killed – he had been the worst at sticking the difficult combat landing on the _Myrmidon_.

"Hey Starbuck, I'm getting strange readings from the station," Ares said. "Oh, frak. All Vipers get clear, it's gonna blow," he shouted.

Starbuck didn't ask for an explanation or question the merits of Ares giving an order; she just followed his advice and pulled up, hitting her thrusters as a bright blast illuminated the few raiders left in the area. _What the hell happened to the station?_ she wondered. She hadn't seen any missiles hit it, and it hadn't seemed to take enough damage from the raiders' guns to explain an explosion. _Maybe decompression, but it shouldn't have blown up._

"DRADIS contact," Ares said. "Oh, frak…"

"Run for it," Starbuck ordered. _Ten, twenty, thirty… there's gotta be at least fifty more of the bastards._

"Raptors, get clear and jump to rendezvous point gamma. _Myrmidon_, get ready for us to land. We'll be coming in hot."

_To be continued…………………………_


	12. Ignorance is Bliss

Ron Moore reimagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way meant to challenge any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**XII – Ignorance is Bliss**

"I know we agreed not to discuss work, but how's the president doing?" Dualla asked.

"Fine," Billy answered. Dualla noticed that he did not make eye contact when he spoke; that was becoming a habit when they discussed the president's condition. She knew that Billy was hiding something, and she assumed that what he was hiding was the fact that the rumors were true – President Roslin had caught the Trojan Plague. It was on all the channels, though there had been no serious questions asked by the press. Amazingly, most every surviving reporter seemed far more interested in Tom Zarek's tour through the fleet. _Surprising how many favors terrorists seem to be able to call in when they want to get some airtime,_ Dualla marveled.

"Anything you want to talk about?" Dee asked. Billy stared at his plate, poking at his re-hydrated beef with his fork, apparently oblivious to her question. And her presence. "Hey, Billy."

He looked up quickly, his eyes slightly glazed over. "Huh?"

"You awake?" Dualla asked.

"Sorry, I have a lot on my mind," Billy apologized.

"You don't have to explain yourself," Dee assured him. "I know what you do for the president, and I hear everything that people are saying in the fleet."

"Everything?"

"_Everything_," Dee assured him with a wickedly amused smile. "When I retire, I'm going to write a book and call it Stranger Than Fiction. You should hear some of the things that go on in the fleet."

"Like what?"

"You know Captain Renault?"

"On the _Kimba Huta_," Billy said. "I've met him once or twice."

"His daughter is on the ship, and she's apparently started shacking up with one of the paroled prisoners from the _Astral Queen_."

"Nice," Billy replied.

"Yeah, well, seems she's also two months pregnant."

"Good for her."

"She's only been seeing this guy for a month and a half."

"Okay, so maybe not so good for her."

"And her new boyfriend originally went to prison for killing his ex-wife in a jealous rage."

"Things like that make me wonder if maybe the universe wouldn't have been better off if the cylons had just finished the job."

"Thanks for cheering me up," Dee said. Billy turned back to his food, clearly depressed, and she started to wonder just how serious he was being. "Umm… are you sure you're okay?"

"Huh?"

"Are you okay?" Dee repeated.

"Fine," Billy assured her. "Just a lot of stress lately, what with the president--." He stopped in mid-sentence, something in his eyes aghast at what he had almost let slip out.

"The president what?" Dualla asked.

"The president has been on my back to do something lately," Billy said. "And I know she's right, but it's something that really… I don't know."

"What don't you know?"

Billy reached into his pocket and then placed a ring on the table in front of him.

"What's that?" Dee asked.

"It's a ring," Billy answered needlessly.

"What's it for?"

"It's for you," Billy answered. "It's a gift I'd like to give you, something to show how much I…"

"How much you what?" There were butterflies in her stomach, but she kept her cool. She knew that Billy liked how she remained calm and cool in almost any circumstances, especially since he also got to see the passionate side of her she kept hidden underneath.

"This isn't easy for me, you know," Billy stammered.

"What isn't?" Dualla was touched by the gift, but she didn't see why Billy should get so choked up.

"Willyoumarryme?" Billy blurted out.

"Huh?" Dualla muttered, her voice seeming to work on autopilot as she worked at decoding his question. Part of her mind had already figured out what he asked, she knew that much, but for some reason that information seemed to be having trouble reaching the rest of her brain. It was the weirdest thing she had ever felt, and she was certain that all of a sudden, she looked anything but calm and cool.

"Will you marry me?" Billy asked, this time having no trouble with the words. It seemed that speaking them once made it easier to repeat.

"I… umm… yeah," Dualla said, unable to say much of anything else. "Yeah."

"Whoa," Billy sighed, clearly relieved.

"That was… unexpected," Dee said.

"Good enough for an entry into your book someday?" Billy was quickly recovering all of his composure, though he had a goofy, lopsided grin that he seemed incapable of shedding.

"Maybe," Dualla answered noncommittally. "So, the ring," she prompted. "What's with that?"

"I wanted something different, something that's symbolic but has no connection to any of our traditional customs," Billy explained.

"So it's symbolic."

"Yes."

"Of what?"

"Well, it's a ring," Billy pointed out. "So it's a circle, which continues infinitely."

"Oh," Dualla responded. "But what about the stone? Is that diamond?"

"Yeah," Billy confirmed. "Diamonds are the hardest naturally occurring substance. They last forever."

"And you think we'll last forever?" Dualla grinned.

"I want to find out," Billy replied. It was about the mushiest thing he had ever said, and Dualla found she loved him more than ever for it.

"So I guess I should start looking for a priest."

"Umm…"

"Or a qualified government official," she amended, remembering Billy's attitude concerning religion.

"No, a priest is fine," he assured her. "Whatever you want, that's what we'll do."

When Dee had been young and daydreamed about the day she became engaged – and the man who would someday ask her – it had never been anything like this. _Never in a million years would I have dreamt up a scenario like this or a guy like Billy. But it's true: sometimes, reality is stranger than fiction._

-------------------------------------------------

"Would you like me to rephrase the question?" Dr. Drake asked, tapping his pencil to the beat of some unknown tune in his head.

"No," Helo answered, still staring at the top of the table. "I understood the question." _I just don't have the vaguest idea how to answer,_ he admitted silently. _What do I expect our child to be like…_

"What I mean is--"

"I understood you," Helo snapped. "You want to know whether I think our child is going to be human."

"Perhaps," Drake said. "To be honest, I'm not certain I can tell you what I expect from your answer any more than you know how to begin phrasing it."

"Huh?" Helo hated it when people seemed to speak in riddles around him, and he found that it happened more every day.

"Well, we know that you're human," Drake said. "So let's start with that."

"Fine."

"And any child you naturally father will receive human DNA – your DNA – from you."

"I got it," Helo assured him. "It's not like I missed that day in high school biology. Sperm, egg, presto, change-o, bada-bing."

"So to speak," Drake agreed. "You donate human DNA."

"We already covered this."

"What does Ms. Valerii donate?"

"Huh?" It was such a simple, basic question that Helo had never even thought about it.

"We heard from Lieutenant Thrace that the cylons are harvesting human ovaries and the reproductive cell within them," Drake explained. "If the cylons placed one of those ovaries in Ms. Valerii, then it's a safe assumption that your child will be human, although he or she may not look anything like either one of you."

"Because the egg may come from a mother who looks nothing like Sharon."

"Exactly."

"But then…" Helo's voice trailed off as he strained to consider all of the possibilities.

"If that's the case, then the child will be human. 100 percenthuman," Drake said. "I fail to see how that would advance the cylon cause at all. That's really nothing more than a test tube baby, with Ms. Valerii being both the test tube and the surrogate mother the embryo is implanted in."

"Okay," Helo said, reasonably certain he was following along. "So that would mean that our kid is 100 percent human."

"Which makes no sense," Drake said. "The cylons would only have accomplished creating another specimen of a species they've otherwise seemed rather intent on exterminating."

"So then what are they doing?"

"There must have been some kind of alteration of the eggs," Drake replied. "But the science behind that would be… unheard of. Unimaginable, even."

"That's just genetic engineering," Helo countered. "We have that technology."

"No, it's more than that," Drake explained. "Dr. Baltar's cylon detector has demonstrated that the cylons use some artificial tissue that reacts differently when exposed to radiation. Look, for a cylon to remain undetected within human groups, we would also have to assume that the cylons can heal minor injuries just as humans can. This tissue is otherwise indistinguishable from human cells, so it at least looks natural and grows naturally. "

"Sure."

"That means the cylons must have a way not only of genetically modifying the eggs they harvest, but of modifying them in such a way as to naturally produce cells that are biologically distinct from the rest of the surrounding tissue in the body."

"Huh?" Helo had thought he was following along, but all of a sudden he felt like he was much in need of a science refresher course.

"Think of it this way," Drake suggested. "A cylon is like a living cream-filled cupcake; on the outside it may be indistinguishable from a non-cream-filled cupcake. All of these humaniform cylons are like this – they are human in all outward respects, but at their core, there's something artificial, something cylon. What we have to assume they're doing with Ms. Valerii is constructing a cylon naturally, on the genetic level, with all of the cylon cells actually producing and replicating themselves right alongside natural human cells. This goes beyond nano-technology or mere genetic engineering, Lieutenant. This is actually constructing a completely new species – a hybrid of a naturally occurring one and an artificially constructed one – by starting with a programmed combination of nucleotides at the genetic level."

"Sounds complicated," Helo admitted, not knowing what else to say.

"It's far more than that, Lieutenant – it's impossible. At least according to our science. When Lieutenant Thrace was shot down, she was able to salvage a cylon raider and fly that back to _Galactica_."

"Uh-huh."

"And when the cylon centurions or raiders fire on Colonial forces, they do so with ordnance that's comparable to what we use."

"Yup."

"And when their basestars fire nukes at _Galactica_, the _Galactica's_ hull is strong enough to withstand the blast."

"It was designed to," Helo pointed out.

"Cylon computer viruses are advanced, but we're able to sweep them out of our systems when given enough time."

"Yes." Helo was finally getting comfortable with the flow of the conversation when Drake threw him a curveball.

"In every way, cylon technology is based upon, and comparable to, human technology. In all cases but this."

"So?"

"So the cylons have demonstrated an amazing ability to adopt, adapt, even perfect human technology; but in this one area of science, they've shown an inconceivable capacity for invention. This accomplishment stands out, it doesn't mesh with what else we know about the cylons."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't accept that the cylons made this scientific leap on their own," Drake summed up. "If they could create technology this advanced, they would also have weapons that could vaporize _Galactica_ rather than just scar its hull; they would have raiders that were too fast, too maneuverable, and too well armed and armored for any Viper to stand a chance in a dogfight; and their centurions would be able to overwhelm us rather than fall to our explosive rounds. The cylons found this technology somewhere – or they were given it – and I want to know where."

"And you think Sharon knows."

"Or she can provide clues," Drake clarified. "Clues might gain us a way to get our own hands on some of this technology. They may get us a weapon we can use to get back in the fight."

"And it all starts with Sharon," Helo muttered, now afraid more than ever for her safety and the safety of their child.

-------------------------------------------------

"You might want to wake up now," Six suggested, knocking Baltar out of a dream where he was celebrating his solo victory over the Caprica Buccaneers in a cotton candy eating contest. Once he had a moment to think about it, he decided that being awakened wasn't such a bad thing.

"What is it?" Baltar asked, not even worried about waking Tabitha Donner. She was sound asleep next to him, and he had found that she was the type of person who would have slept through the cylon attack if it had happened at night on her side of Caprica.

"You should probably wake her up, too," Six suggested, gesturing dismissively at the author.

"In a minute," Baltar said. "What's going on?"

"You're wasting time, Gaius."

"Fine," Baltar muttered, gently shaking Donner as it occurred to him that he should probably come up with a convincing lie. _Obviously, I can't say I'm waking her because my secret invisible cylon friend told me that it was time to get up._

"Uhhh…" Donner moaned, grabbing her pillow and burrowing her head beneath it.

"I, umm… I need you to leave, now," Baltar told her.

"Huh?" That got her attention. Donner sat up straight, struggling to keep her eyes open as she leaned back against the wall. "What is it?"

"I just had an epiphany, I think," Baltar said. "It was in a dream." _Don't mention the cotton candy. Don't mention the cotton candy._ "I think I may have thought of a better way to detect cylons."

"Really? How?" Donner was definitely awake now, and Baltar started walking around the room, picking up stray items of clothing and either putting them on or tossing them to his guest. To his surprise, Donner did not seem at all offended that he was throwing her out in the middle of the night.

"It's just a thought," Baltar replied vaguely. "Probably won't even work, actually, but I have to get down to it while it's fresh in my head. You understand."

"Of course."

Donner had just finished pulling up her pants when the door to Baltar's quarters flew open. Both he and Donner looked immediately to the doorway, finding two men in suits and ties standing there in front of them.

"Doctor Baltar," one of them said curtly. "You need to come with us. Now."

"Excuse me, but I'm a little busy," he objected. Both men walked into the room, and the one who had spoken grabbed Baltar by the elbow while the other stared down Donner, almost as if he was daring her to say a word of protest.

"Now," the man repeated.

He forcefully led Baltar from his quarters and down the hall. It was almost a full minute later that Baltar realized he recognized the man. _He's one of President Roslin's security team._

"What's going on?" Baltar asked, noting that he was being ushered through the hallways in his bare feet. His answer came moments later, and he didn't need anyone to say a word. He was ushered into a room where he saw Billy Keikeya, two other guards, and a young priest. "The president…" Baltar prompted.

Billy shook his head, and the priest closed a book he had been reading. A few seconds later, the door opened again behind them, and Commander Adama entered.

"Doctor Baltar," the commander said gruffly. Baltar was almost certain there was the hint of tear in Adama's eye, but he could not be entirely sure.

"Please repeat after me," the president said, gesturing for Baltar to place his right hand on the book he was holding.

Baltar hardly heard the words, and was not even aware he was repeating them. But not long later he felt every eye in the room focusing on him. _Everything's different now,_ he realized. He tried to think of something inspirational to say, something that would solve everyone's problems and assure the handful of witnesses that he had a plan to make everything better. "Tell me what happened to President Roslin," was the best he could muster.

Commander Adama nodded and started the tale.

_To be continued…………………………_


	13. It Can't Rain All the Time

Ron Moore reimagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way meant to challenge any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

**XIII – It Can't Rain All the Time**

"Billy Keikeya," a young man said, walking up and joining him at the bar.

"You are?" Billy prompted. He could only describe the other man's attitude as smarmy, and he was definitely not in the mood for that.

"Deacon Connor," Deaq replied with a grin. "You were the president's lapdog."

"Say again?" Billy asked. The only thing that kept him from throwing a punch was the expression he imagined on Dee's face when she eventually showed up to visit him in the brig.

"You were Roslin's assistant."

"_President_ Roslin's assistant," Billy corrected.

"Of course," Deaq said with a smile. He seemed intent on irritating Billy, and he was clearly amused by the fact that he was succeeding. "So you poundin' the pavement now, so to speak, or does the new guy plan on keeping you around?"

"Why don't you just say whatever the frak it is you have to say and take off?"

"I'm here to give you a message," Deaq responded, taking a seat next to Billy. "My boss has been very impressed by your abilities in the political arena."

"Your boss," Billy responded. "Who's that?"

"Tom Zarek. He said you actually played him like a violin when the president sneaked off."

The bartender had already placed an iced Delphi Sunset in front of Deaq without him asking for it. That chased away any suspicions that Billy might have had about Deaq lying about having an employer with influence. _If the bartenders on _Cloud Nine_ know your favorite drink, you're either wealthy or connected._ He looked Deaq over closely, noting fraying cuffs on his shirt and pants. _He didn't have money before the attack,_ Billy decided. _Whatever he has he got after we came out here._

"I'm not interested," Billy said.

"That's it?" Deaq asked. "You don't even give me some song and dance about how you're flattered by Mr. Zarek's offer but you'd like to pursue other opportunities?"

"No."

"Not very diplomatic."

"The president wasn't just my boss – she was my friend," Billy said. "So if you don't mind, I'd like to be alone right now."

"The boss thought you might say something like that," Deaq responded glibly, emptying his glass with a few gulps. "If you change your mind, all you have to do is call him."

"I'll keep that in mind," Billy answered as graciously as possible. _I probably _should_ be a bit more diplomatic,_ he admitted silently. _Damn whoremonger was right about that, anyway._

"Make sure you do," Deaq said, rising to his feet and surveying the formerly wealthy elite who now held court with each other in _Cloud Nine's_ lounge. "Like I said, Mr. Zarek was impressed. I heard you're going to get married – you'd do well to look out for your own future."

Billy was about to abandon all restraint and lay Deaq out on the floor – consequences with Dee be damned – but Zarek's messenger was already walking away quickly, well aware that he'd likely crossed some unspoken line of etiquette with his last comment. Billy remained at the bar for several more minutes, tossing the offer around in his head. _Work for Tom Zarek,_ he wondered. _Would it really be all that bad? People said bad things about President Roslin all the time, but being near her I knew perfectly well that they were all untrue. Maybe it's much the same for Tom Zarek…_

-------------------------------------------------

By the time Apollo found her, she was well and truly drunk, curled up in a fetal position in a dark corner of an off-limits corridor, an empty ambrosia bottle on the floor next to her, the unlit stub of a cigar still clenched between her teeth, keeping her mouth open so that she was drooling on her shirt. "Oh, Kara," Apollo muttered, unable to take his eyes from the scene, transfixed like a witness to a train wreck.

When he got close, he was relieved that the only things he smelled were sweat, ambrosia, and cigar smoke. It was far from pleasant, but it was better than vomit. Apollo was definitely not in the mood to deal with vomit, too, when he was already on the hook for carrying Starbuck all the way back to her bunk and getting her into bed without anyone realizing just how far-gone she was. _The other pilots might laugh, but that isn't really appropriate anymore, even if Kara would be fine with it. It's time for her to grow up; I need a pilot I can count on to do everything that I just can't get to._

"What's going on?" Starbuck asked as Lee picked her up. Her head moved from side to side, as though she was looking around, but her eyes remained shut. "Ares, check life support," Starbuck muttered, her words barely intelligible. "I can't see anything… I think we've lost power."

"You awake?" Apollo asked.

"Lee? Where did Ares go?"

"I haven't found him yet," Apollo answered truthfully. Last he had seen, Ares was wandering off with a flight specialist Apollo was certain was named Susan. He doubted he would see either of them again anytime soon.

"I thought he was just here," Starbuck said. Her left eye opened, and her head started to bob back and forth again. "Lee…"

"Yeah, Kara?"

"I think I'm drunk."

"Definite officer material," Apollo said with a sigh, placing her back on the hard, metal floor. "Figured that out all by yourself, did you?"

"I screwed up," Starbuck said, practically launching her face forward into her hands, hiding herself from Apollo's gaze.

"You were ambushed. It was a trap."

"I got the president killed."

"No." Part of him wanted to indulge in some self-destructive misery right along with her, but this was not the time; now he had to take care of Kara. Apollo knelt down and pried Starbuck's hands away from her face and touched her softly on the chin, drawing her gaze up to meet his. "Starbuck, look at me."

"No," she answered, an exaggerated shaking of her head knocking Apollo's hand away.

"Look at me, Lieutenant." Starbuck opened her eyes and wrinkled her face into a scowl that looked more like an insolent pout. "The president knew the danger," Lee said. "She knew the risks, and she accepted them. You walked into a very carefully set ambush; what happened is not your fault. It's to your credit that you only lost the few people you did."

"Not a big comfort, given that one of them was the president," Starbuck countered. "She was supposed to lead us. Pythia said so."

"Pythia said the leader would die before we reach Earth," Apollo pointed out.

"From a wasting disease," Starbuck answered. "I don't remember anything about the leader getting whacked by cylons."

"Whacked by cylons?" Apollo asked, unable to stop himself from laughing. "Remind me never to send you away on a mission with Ares again; the last thing I need is you talking like him."

"Am I grounded again?"

"No, Kara. I told you – you did a good job out there. And you came back alive, just like I told you to."

"I don't want to be grounded, Lee," Starbuck answered. "I love to fly."

"And you're very good at it."

"Hey, Lee," Kara said, forcing herself up into a seated position against the bulkhead. "Remember when you said you love me?"

"Yeah, I remember," Lee answered awkwardly. That had not been one of his finer moments.

"You're not very good at it," Kara laughed.

"Thanks, Kara."

"I'm _way_ better," she said.

"What?"

"Huh?"

"What did you say?" Apollo asked.

"When?" Starbuck's attempts to remain in an upright, seated position were failing miserably as she slowly began listing toward her right. She was almost down on the floor by the time Lee had propped her back up. "You know what, Captain?"

"What, Lieutenant?"

"That was mean, sending me out there like that. I wouldn't have done that to you."

"You seemed like you wanted to go," Lee pointed out.

"Some would say that's clear evidence it was a bad idea," Starbuck mumbled. "Lee…"

"Yeah, Kara?"

"I think I'm gonna throw up."

"Great."

-------------------------------------------------

Tabitha Donner sighed heavily as she sat back in her chair, sifting through the haphazardly organized pages in her hand. It had been less than twelve hours – not even half a day – since the _Myrmidon_ returned without President Roslin, but Donner found, to her surprise, that that was more than enough time for her to lose all semblance of sanity.

_Sure, we agreed that I wouldn't publish my book – in whole or in part – until she died,_ Donner remembered. _But implicit in that agreement was our mutual belief that she would be around for at least a few more months. How the hell am I supposed to put together a book without having more to work with?_

She had already been visited by Commander Adama, Vice-President – _no, he's the president now_ – Baltar, and some snot-nosed punk who claimed to be Tom Zarek's personal assistant. Donner was surprised that so many people already knew about her book, but she was not exactly shocked that everyone who knew seemed eager to offer input or, at the very least, get some sort of an advance copy. _Not that I know what we're going to publish it on,_ Donner thought. _It'll have to be a completely digital release – available only to those who have datapads – because there just don't seem to be any printing presses anywhere in the fleet._ She smiled at the fact that that was something she had never considered before.

She spread the pages out on the floor and stared at them again, trying to think of a way to organize pages into chapters, and chapters into a book. _I don't even have the whole story,_ she finally decided. _How am I supposed to write the book I planned to write when my only primary source of information is lost?_

"I could really use a drink," she muttered, lamenting the fact that she was not one of the people who had enough influence to secure some type of alcohol, even some of the stuff that random refugees were mixing up in stills cobbled together from random components scavenged from across the fleet. She began to wonder at the fact that no one had as of yet built any machinery to manufacture weapons, but there were reportedly no fewer than fifteen stills scattered across nine different ships. _Gotta love human priorities._

A soft tapping on her door knocked her out her amused reverie. When she opened the door, her eyes settled on an unfamiliar face. "Yes?"

"Hi, I'm Dr. Noah Drake," her visitor explained.

"I'm not sick."

"I'm not a medical doctor," he replied with a grin that implied amusement at some unspoken joke. "I'm an engineer. I'd like to talk to you about your book."

"You and everyone else."

"Trust me, I may have some information – or at least some theories – that may interest you."

"Is that right?" Donner asked.

"It is. I only ask five minutes of your time, Ms. Donner. If you like what you hear, we can continue our discussion for as long as you'd like. If not, you can kick me out of your quarters and rest assured that you will never see me again."

"Five minutes," Donner said impatiently. She glanced back at the mess on her floor and shrugged her shoulders. _Not like I can make a full book out of that,_ she reminded herself. "Sure, five minutes. What do I have to lose?"

-------------------------------------------------

William Adama finally grew impatient with the silence and decided to begin the debriefing. He had hoped that Tigh would start off by offering something, anything – regret at losing the president, pride in successfully retrieving the necessary medication, even a sneeze or a cough to indicate that he was still alive – but there was nothing but silence.

"Why don't you explain how it all went wrong," Adama suggested. He had already read the operation report, and Tigh knew it. Now Adama wanted to hear what wasn't in the report – he wanted to know the reactions that people had, the emotions that were involved, all of the subtext that has no place in an official tactical file.

"Everything was going fine," Tigh explained. "But it was in that way that you know something's wrong. You just know it."

Adama nodded, knowing exactly what his XO was saying. Commander Shelby, Adama's first commanding officer, had referred to it as a nose for trouble, though Adama had always just thought of it as instinct. Shelby's own XO had had it, and eventually Adama got a nose for trouble, too. The best combat officers all had it, and Tigh was no exception.

"We loaded the Raptors and they delivered the first of their two cargo runs," Tigh continued. "The president was getting her scans, with Ishay and Dr. Hobber running the equipment. Ishay came into the cargo bay and told us that Roslin and Hobber were wrapping up, that he was going to discuss her options with her. Our people had started to fall behind schedule, but it was nothing all that bad."

"But it was another little thing that was just not right," Adama commented. He was suddenly reminded of Admiral Cartwright. _He may have had the best instincts – the best nose for trouble – of anyone I've ever met,_ Adama decided. Ironically, Cartwright was always the last person to speak of instinct. He always claimed his gut reaction was right because it was anything but a gut reaction – there were always little clues one could think of if they thought hard enough, tiny details that were always wrong – that the subconscious always picked up on in high-stress situations. Cartwright claimed that he had a set of scales buried deep in his mind; when the little things added up too much, the scales tilted and Cartwright knew it was time to go.

"Yeah, another thing," Tigh agreed. "Like Dr. Frost getting that migraine. He complained of the headache and left. I didn't think to put a guard on him. I don't know what the hell I was doing…"

"Hobber was in our troops' sight the whole time," Adama pointed out. "If they were up to anything, we would have seen it."

"Only as long as Hobber was in on it," Tigh countered. "I screwed up, Bill; we both know it. We've served together for years, and been friends much longer than that. Don't start insulting my intelligence now."

"Fine," Adama muttered.

"Starbuck's warning came first," Tigh continued. "My men froze – all except for Rutger and his team – so I ordered them to grab what they could board the Raptors. All those green soldiers were only to get in the way, anyway. I gave the order to evacuate the president, and Rutger and I took position to defend the cargo bay. The president came running in with Hobber, and they were pinned down. They decided to make a run for it just a split second before Rutger and I were ready. Hobber went down almost immediately--"

"Dead?" Adama interrupted.

"Yes."

"You sure."

"Absolutely," Tigh assured him. "He was dead before he his body hit the deck. The president got caught in mid-stride."

"She survived her wounds?"

"I don't know," Tigh admitted, easily recalling the scene that had haunted his dreams every time he had tried to sleep since then. "I thought she was dead at the time, but… I don't know…"

"Your memory's playing tricks on you," Adama said. "You've probably thought about it so many times that you've seen every possible way in your mind's eye. Tell me the best you can – was she dead?"

"I don't think I'll ever be able to say one way or the other," Tigh answered. "Like I said, I thought she was dead. I was sure of it. Or maybe I just told myself that because it made it easier to leave her, to get out of there, to save my own hide."

"Don't," Adama growled. "If I'm not allowed to insult your intelligence, you're not allowed to sit there and feel sorry for yourself and consider the possibility that maybe, out of nowhere, you suddenly developed a fear of battle. No bullshit in here."

"Okay."

"Again – was she dead?"

"Honestly, Bill, I don't know," Tigh responded with a frustrated shrug. "She was at least ten meters away, I couldn't tell for sure. Her wounds were bad, and I'm reasonably certain she never would have survived the trip back to the fleet. But to say she was dead when we left, I can't be sure."

"And you left her." It wasn't a question.

Tigh nodded, his eyes unreadable.

"Would you do it again?"

"I don't know," Tigh replied. "I couldn't have gotten to her, I know that," Tigh explained. "There were more centurions coming in; they would have gotten me. We were outmaneuvered and outgunned, with no chance of success, but we both know that doesn't excuse me not even trying. I don't know what I was thinking." Tigh leaned forward, placing his face in his hands as he sighed heavily.

Adama was surprised at how tired his friend sounded. There was a momentary flutter of a thought, something about Tigh's real age, but Adama chased it away. The commander would not think about that; if Tigh was old, then so was he. _And I have too much to do to be old right now._

"What's done is done," Adama finally said. "We have to focus on what comes next. I want you to take the _Myrmidon_."

"Where?" Tigh asked.

"Nowhere," Adama replied. "I'm giving you the command."

"I respectfully decline," Tigh said evenly.

"I'm not giving you a choice in the matter."

"Maybe you should," Tigh suggested. "But either way, you should reconsider your decision."

"You couldn't have handled the situation differently on Chiron," Adama countered. "Like you told me, it wasn't a battle you could win. The cylons had inside help, and they set us up. There's no sense beating yourself up over this."

"I'm not beating myself up," Tigh objected. "And I'm not at all influenced by the fact that some people will doubtlessly object to me getting a command after I may have left Roslin to die, perhaps because of what happened between us when I declared martial law. I'm just thinking through this rationally. The _Myrmidon_ is a light support vessel, really little more than a special forces operations ship. Its role will be limited. XO on the last surviving battlestar is a more important post than captain on an expendable support ship."

Adama nodded, considering Tigh's argument. _He's right,_ the commander decided. _No two ways about it. There are two or three other officers who could command the _Myrmidon_, and none of them would make half the XO that Tigh is. No matter how badly he screwed the pooch last time command fell to him, I don't even want to imagine what anyone else in the fleet might have done._ He felt an uncomfortable surge of emotion for just a moment as another thought occurred to him. _With Laura dead and Baltar president, we can be sure Zarek will start being more brazen in his attempts to gain power. If something were to happen to me, only Tigh has the balls to stand up to Zarek. He has to remain my second._

"Fine," Adama said with a nod. "You've made your point. That just leaves us with the matter of who gets the _Myrmidon_."

"It's got to be Kelly," Tigh commented without a moment's hesitation. "Ellen mentioned she ran into him the other day, and that got me thinking. As _Galactica's_ LSO, he's the most qualified officer we have to organize combat landings on that old harvester. Let me tell you, Bill, that was a real bitch. We were two jumps away before I let myself believe that all our pilots actually pulled it off. That was a real one-in-a-thousand shot there."

"Captain Kelly," Adama said, considering the suggestion. He hated the fact that Kelly's name had been mentioned in the same sentence as Ellen's – _that can't be anything but bad, _Adama decided – but Saul was right; Kelly was probably the ideal choice.

-------------------------------------------------

"President Gaius Baltar," Six cooed, sidling up so close that Baltar was certain he could feel the heat of the hallucination's skin against him. It almost made up for the fact that she had woken him out of a very sound sleep.

"Say it again," Baltar prompted.

"President Gaius Baltar," Six repeated, whispering in his ear, raising goose bumps all the way down his left side. "You're now the most powerful man in the fleet, Gaius."

"So long as no one counts Commander Adama," Baltar replied, finding that he was unexpectedly bothered by the fact that he might have to play second fiddle to the commander. It was not the kind of thing that would have bothered him just a few months earlier.

"No, you're more powerful," Six assured him. "You have to be, Gaius. To protect our child."

Baltar had a flash of memory – Adama taking his child and drowning her – and shook it off. _It was only a dream,_ he told himself, though he knew better. He doubted he'd had an honest to goodness dream in months. _Sleep is just a time for her to get at me when my defenses are down,_ he reminded himself. _Prime time for cylon propaganda, all of it deposited straight into my subconscious._

"What is it?" Six asked, gazing at Baltar's face. "You look… suspicious."

"I'm a little tired," Baltar lied. "I've had a lot to do, and I don't think it's going to get easier." He felt a wave of stress and panic build up in his gut, and his best efforts did little to calm his nerves. _President Gaius Baltar,_ he thought. _Just what the hell am I supposed to do now?_

"I can help with whatever you need," Six assured him. "We can do this together."

"And what about Zarek?" Baltar asked. "He's not going to be satisfied being a member of the Quorum of Twelve. I'm going to have to nominate a candidate for vice-president, and I don't know that I can produce anyone who can beat him."

"We'll figure something out," Six said, stroking Baltar's arm calmly.

"And what about the cylons?" Baltar asked. "Sooner or later, they're going to show up on our doorstep. I can't imagine they'd be willing to pass up a chance to wipe us out just because you and I are expecting a child."

"Everything will become clear," Six assured him. "All you need is patience, Gaius. Patience and faith."

"Faith," Baltar repeated dubiously. "In what? In whom?"

"Everything will become clear," Six told him again. "Trust me. I've never steered you wrong. Why would I start now?"

_Fin_

**Author's Endnote:** Well, that's the end of The Dark at the End of the Tunnel. Hope you liked it. There will, of course, be a sequel. (I don't remember if I mentioned this in an earlier note, but this story is the first part of a trilogy.) Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. At the risk of offending those who reviewed, but less often, I'd like to specially thank **ozma914**, **Evilclone**, and **darkfinder**, whose multiple reviews helped inspire me to keep plugging away at this thing.  
The second story is in progress, and I hope to have the first chapter up by the end of the month. (Due to concerns with developing three simultaneous plot threads, I have to be several chapters into writing before I can safely start posting, so that's the reason for the delay.) It's still untitled, so if you want to read it, you'll just have to keep an eye out. Thanks again.


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